“Well, lads,” said I, “can you give me a light?”
One of them recoiled a little as he caught my eye. He seemed to know me, though I am free to confess I did not know him.
“To be sure,” said the other.
And striking a match upon the wall he handed me a light, whereupon I began to puff away; and as smoking is a social act, I found myself irresistibly attracted by my friend, who in my first going up appeared to be so shy.
“Do you know where the Castle of Clouts is?” said I, as I peered and peered into the dark face of him who tried to avoid my gaze.
But I was still at fault. His features were familiar to me, but the soot still came between me and my identification. At length I got my clue.
“Andrew Ireland,” said I, “when did you come out of the Canongate churchyard? Was there a skylight in the top of the coffin?”
“Andrew Stewart is my name,” replied the black ghost.
“And when did you turn sweep, Andrew?”
“When seven years old,” said he; “but I tell you my name is Stewart, and be d——d to you.”