We had each told a story, and had had the usual assortment of mysterious noises and death warnings and sheeted spectres and so on, down through the whole catalogue of horrors—enough to satisfy any reasonable ghost-taster. But Jack, as usual, was dissatisfied. He said our stories were all second-hand stuff. There wasn't a man in the crowd who had ever seen or heard a ghost; all our so-called authentic stories had been told us by persons who had the story from other persons who saw the ghosts.
"One doesn't get any information from that," said Jack. "I never expect to get so far along as to see a real ghost myself, but I would like to see and talk to one who had."
Some persons appear to have the knack of getting their wishes granted. Jack is one of that ilk. Just as he made the remark, Davenport sauntered in and, finding out what was going on, volunteered to tell a ghost story himself—something that had happened to his grandmother, or maybe it was his great-aunt; I forget which. It was a very good ghost story as ghost stories go, and Davenport told it well. Even Jack admitted that, but he said:
"It's only second-hand too. Did you ever have a ghostly experience yourself, old man?"
Davenport put his finger tips critically together.
"Would you believe me if I said I had?" he asked.
"No," said Jack unblushingly.
"Then there would be no use in my saying it."
"But you don't mean that you ever really had, of course?"
"I don't know. Something queer happened once. I've never been able to explain it—from a practical point of view, that is. Want to hear about it?"