“Foolershness,” whispered the Loafer, “‘v-v-v-vestig-g-gatin’ ghosts ’hen they ain’t no sech things. The Missus is settin’ up fer me an’ I’ll hev to be goin’.”
“Pap allus was superstitchous,” exclaimed the Storekeeper, as he made his way back through the maze of boxes and barrels to the store in the wake of the Loafer. The others were hurrying along in the rear.
The rain had ceased. Overhead the black clouds, visible in the bright starlight, were scurrying away towards the hills. The G. A. R. Man and the Loafer were parting at the latter’s gate at the end of the village.
“Hev you ben gittin’ any sugar o’ him lately?” asked the veteran, pointing his thumb over his shoulder in the direction whence they had come.
“I hev,” replied the Loafer. “An’ I guess ole Ed Harmon is still at it.”
“What do ye think it was?”
“It might ’a’ ben a rat. It might ’a’ ben a loose board. It might ’a’ ben a hundred things like that. I ain’t superstitchous—not a bit superstitchous.” The speaker paused. “But jest the same I ain’t fer investigatin’ ghosts,” he added.