"It is you," cried Shingles, with an ejaculation of profound astonishment; "solid flesh and blood!"—grasping Morton's extended hand—"and not your ghost. Why, we all thought you were dead!"
"Not quite," said Morton.
"Dead and buried," repeated Shingles, "off in Transylvania, or some such place."
"I was buried, but they buried me alive."
Shingles, who had a taste for the horrible, took the assertion literally, and dilated his eyes like an owl on the lookout for a mouse.
"But how did you manage to get out?"
"I contrived to break loose, after a few years."
Shingles stared in horror and perplexity.
"Don't be frightened, Charley. I'm all right,—neither ghost nor vampire. But we shall be pushed off the sidewalk, if we stand here."
"Come down into Florence's, then, and let me hear about it. Hang me if I ever expected to see you again. I shouldn't like to have met you alone, at night, any where near a graveyard. At our last class meeting, we were all talking about you, and saying you were a deused good fellow, and what a pity it was. And here you are alive; it was all for nothing!"