The silence after the second shot was like a black cloud on the darkness. Mr. Puce thought out the wickedest word he knew, and said it. Well, he wasn’t going to miss again. No, sir! His hand was steady as iron, too. Iron was his second name. And again the gentleman from America found it quite delicious, the feeling that he was not frightened. Attaboy! The drops of sweat from his forehead bothered him, though. Aw, what the hell, that was only excitement.
He raised his arm for the third shot. Jupiter and Jane, but he’d learn that ghost to stop ghosting! He was certainly sorry for that ghost. He wished, though, that he could concentrate more on the actual body of the headless thing. There it was, darn it, at the foot of the bed, staring at him—well, it would have been staring at him if it had a head. Aw, of course it had a head! It was only Quillier with his lousy face in a black wrap. Sir Cyril Quillier’d get one piece of lead in him this time, though. His own fault, the bastard.
“Say, listen, Quillier,” said the gentleman from America, “I want to tell you that unless you quit you are a corpse. Now I mean it, sure as my name is Howard Cornelius Puce. I have been shooting to miss so far. Yes, sir. But I am now annoyed. You get me, kid?”
If only, though, he could concentrate more on the body of the thing. His eyes kept wandering to the hands and arms. Gee, but they sure were long, those arms! As long as the bed, no less. Just long enough for the hands to get at him from the foot of the bed. And that’s what they were at, what’s more! Coming nearer. What the hell! They were moving, those doggone arms, nearer and nearer....
Mr. Puce fired again.
That was no miss. He knew that was no miss. Right through the heart, that little boy must have gone. In that darkness he couldn’t see more than just the shape of the thing. Aw, Goddammit! But it was still now. The arms were still. They weren’t moving any more. The gentleman from America chuckled. That one had shown him that it’s a wise little crack of a ghost that stops ghosting. Yes, sir! It certainly would fall in a moment, dead as Argentine mutton.
Mr. Puce then swore. Those arms were moving again. The hands weren’t a yard from him now. What the hell! They were for his throat, Goddammit.
“You swine!” sobbed the gentleman from America, and fired again. But he wouldn’t wait this time. No, sir! He’d let that ghost have a ton of lead. Mr. Puce fired again. Those hands weren’t half-a-yard from his throat now. No good shooting at the hands, though. Thing was to get the thing through the heart. Mr. Puce fired the sixth bullet. Right into the thing’s chest. The sweat bothered his eyes. “Aw, hell!” said Mr. Puce. He wished the bed was a bit longer. He couldn’t get back any more. Those arms.... Holy Moses; long as hell, weren’t they! Mr. Puce fired the seventh, eighth ... ninth. Right into the thing. The revolver fell from Mr. Puce’s shaking fingers. Mr. Puce heard himself screaming.
IV
Towards noon on a summer’s day several years later two men were sitting before an inn some miles from the ancient town of Lincoln. Drawn up in the shade of a towering ash was a large grey touring-car, covered with dust. On the worn table stood two tankards of ale. The travellers rested in silence and content, smoking.