“I come from the same place,” says he. “They are bad enough there, in all conscience—more particularly, by the same token, the middlemen, tithe-proctors, and excisemen; but they didn’t bury live min in my time,” says he.
“But they did dead ones,” says I.
“Of coorse,” he assented. “And it’s you that will have to bury me mighty soon, unless—”
“Unless what?” I demanded, in a bigger fright than ever at the thought of having to turn sexton to a sperrit.
“Well, unless you give me something to ate and drink,” says he.
“Take all there is in that locker,” says I, “and welcome—and be off out of this.”
“Don’t say it agin,” says he; and he opened the locker, and walked into the cook’s store like a shark that had been kaping a six weeks’ fast.
It was wonderful to see how the tears stood in the poor ghost’s eyes, how his jaws worked, and his throat swelled, as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful, the bigness of a big man’s fist. In a few minutes he turned to me, and said, “Take my blessing for this, Phil!”
I was startled to hear the ghost call me by my own name; but as I didn’t want to encourage him to kape on visiting terms, I thought it wouldn’t do to let him become too familiar, so I said, mighty stiff like, “Fill yourself, honest spirit, as much as you plase, but don’t be Phil-ing me—I don’t like such freedom on a short acquaintance—and you are no friend of mine,” says I.
“I was onct,” he replied.