Bill remarked in reply, "This is all very queer— What, a Drummer-boy—bloody, too—eh!—well, I never— I can't see no Drummer-boy here whatsumdever!" "Not see him!—why there;—look!—he's close by the post— Hark!—hark!—how he drums at me now!—he's a Ghost!"
"A what?" return'd Bill,—at that moment a flash More than commonly awful preceded a crash Like what's call'd in Kentucky "an Almighty Smash."— And down Harry Waters went plump on his knees, While the sound, though prolong'd, died away by degrees; In its last sinking echoes, however, were some Which, Bill could not help thinking, resembled a drum!
"Hollo! Waters!—I says," Quoth he in amaze, "Why, I never see'd nuffin in all my born days Half so queer As this here, And I'm not very clear But that one of us two has good reason for fear— You to jaw about drummers, with nobody near us!— I must say as how that I thinks it's mysterus."
"Oh, mercy!" roared Waters, "do keep him off, Bill, And, Andrew, forgive!—I'll confess all!—I will!
THE DEAD DRUMMER.