We couldn’t stir for a minute or two; then it was gone. We talked about it in low voices. Tom says:
“They’re mostly dim and smoky, or like they’re made out of fog, but this one wasn’t.”
“No,” I says; “I seen the goggles and the whiskers perfectly plain.”
“Yes, and the very colors in them loud countrified Sunday clothes—plaid breeches, green and black—”
“Cotton velvet westcot, fire-red and yaller squares—”
“Leather straps to the bottoms of the breeches legs and one of them hanging unbottoned—”
“Yes, and that hat—”
“What a hat for a ghost to wear!”
You see it was the first season anybody wore that kind—a black stiff-brim stove-pipe, very high, and not smooth, with a round top—just like a sugar-loaf.
“Did you notice if its hair was the same, Huck?”