“I’m Ollie Baxter. For goodness’ sake, Horace, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your only brother-in-law. I—”
“Go away! You’re dead. I don’t want any dead people coming around here to—”
A shrill, lively cackle came up from the murk. Mr. Gooch clapped his hand to his forehead.
“Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!” he groaned.
“Ain’t you going to let me in? I’m not going to ask you again, you darned old skinflint. I hate you anyhow, and always did—but I thought maybe after me being away for more than a year you’d be hospitable enough to—”
“Stop talking!” commanded Mr. Gooch. “You always did talk too much. Now, listen to me. Are you really alive?”
“Course I am. What ails you?”
“I don’t believe it. They found your body this afternoon.”
“You don’t say so!” gasped the object under the window.
“Horribly decayed,” added Mr. Gooch sternly.