Right from under the snowy cloth, and the cheerful urn, and the smoking milk-toast, the unaccountable ticking was heard.
“Ain’t there a fire in the next room, Julia,” said I, “let us breakfast there, my dear,” turning to my wife—“let us go—leave the table—tell Biddy to remove the things.”
And so saying I was moving towards the door in high self-possession, when my wife interrupted me.
“Before I quit this room, I will see into this ticking,” she said with energy.
“It is something that can be found out, depend upon it. I don’t believe in spirits, especially at breakfast-time. Biddy! Biddy! Here, carry these things back to the kitchen,” handing the urn. Then, sweeping off the cloth, the little table lay bare to the eye.
“It’s the table, the table!” cried Julia.
“Nonsense,” said my wife, “Who ever heard of a ticking table? It’s on the floor. Biddy! Julia! Anna! move everything out of the room—table and all. Where are the tack-hammers?”
“Heavens, mamma—you are not going to take up the carpet?” screamed Julia.
“Here’s the hammers, marm,” said Biddy, advancing tremblingly.
“Hand them to me, then,” cried my wife; for poor Biddy was, at long gun-distance, holding them out as if her mistress had the plague.