"Nothing," said Phillis, "only I've seen the ghost."
"Lord! what?"
"The ghost!" said Phillis, "and its got red eyes, too, sure enough."
"Phillis," said Bacchus, appealingly, "you aint much used to jokin, and I know you wouldn't tell an ontruth; what do you mean?"
"I mean," said Phillis, "that the very ghost you saw, and heard screeching, with the red eyes glarin at you through the window, I've seen this morning."
"Phillis," said Bacchus, sinking back in his chair, "'taint possible! What was it a doin?"
"I can tell you what its doing now," said Phillis, "its eating bread and milk and a piece of bacon, as hard as it can. Its eyes is red, to be sure, but I reckon yours would be red or shut, one, if you'd a been nigh a fortnight locked up in an empty house, with now and then a mouse to eat. Why, Bacchus, how come it, you forgot old Jupiter? I was too busy to think about cats, but I wonder nobody else didn't think of the poor animal."
"Sure enough," said Bacchus, slowly recovering from his astonishment, "its old Jupiter—why I'd a sworn on the Bible 'twas Aunt Peggy's sperrit. Well, I do b'lieve! that old cat's lived all this time; well, he aint no cat any how—I always said he was a witch, and now I knows it, that same old Jupiter. But, Phillis, gal, I wouldn't say nothin at all about it—we'll have all dese low niggers laughin at us."
"What they going to laugh at me about?" said Phillis. "I didn't see no ghost."
"Well, its all de same," said Bacchus, "they'll laugh at me—and man and wife's one—'taint worth while to say nothin 'bout it, as I see."