“I knowd it,” the Loafer cried triumphantly. “I allus knowd it. I thank you, Teacher, fer backin’ me up with this petickler instance of it. The cattle do talk on Chrisermas Eve.”
CHAPTER XII.
The Haunted Store.
The Chronic Loafer cautiously opened the door and peered out into the black night. A blinding flash of lightning zigzagged across the heavens and descended to earth in a nearby wheat field, disclosing to his view the clear outlines of a great oak whose limbs were thrashing wildly in the wind. There was a sound of splintering wood, a crash of thunder overhead, then darkness again. The door swung shut with a startled bang. The rain beat violently against the windows.
“The ole tree’s hit agin,” the Loafer cried. “Did ye see that flash? Mighty souls, what a night! I wisht I’d gone home ’fore it begin to come down so heavy. I hevn’t no umbrelly, an’ the Missus’ll never hear me callin’ in sech a storm.”
The store was a gloomy place, lighted as it was by a solitary oil lamp which cast weird shadows in the recesses of the dusty ceiling and over the shelves, laden with their motley collection of crockery and glassware, boxes and cans. There was no fire in the stove, for it was late in the spring, so the atmosphere was damp and chilly.
The G. A. R. Man joined the Loafer at the door.
“Bad, ain’t it?” he said. “I guesst I don’t go home be way o’ the Meth’dis’ buryin’-ground to-night.”
The other laughed and cried, “My sights! ’Fraid o’ the buryin’-ground!”