"I'm me," Marc murmured vaguely. "Who's he?"
Toffee sprang away from her perch on George's chest.
"Oh, mother!" she cried.
"Well," George said resignedly, getting to his feet. "I suppose that I might as well admit it, now that you've found me out." He turned to Marc. "I'm your ghost."
"Ghost!" Marc and Toffee sang it out together. As Marc sprang to his feet, they both closed in on George, crowded him back defensively into one of the phone booths.
During all this, the incident had attracted several innocent bystanders who were now looking on with baffled interest.
"What have they got in there?" one official-looking gentleman asked another. "Did you see?"
The other shook his head. "I think they said it was a goat."
"A goat? What on earth are they doing with a goat in there? Do you suppose they have the beast talking to someone on the phone?"
"If they have," the second replied, "it had better yell for help. They were crowding the poor thing something awful. On the other hand, maybe they just wanted to milk it. If it's a modest goat it might be reluctant about being milked right out here in the middle of the hall."