"The time is approaching when the landlord will request us to leave the premises," said Mr. Coffin; "and, as you are aware, the first of us to rise to depart must, according to the superstition, die within the year: a most laughable superstition, of course!"
Mr. Coffin looked round. Each one whom he fixed with his eye chuckled feebly and whispered "Ar—o' course!"
"Who volunteers to rise first?" asked Mr. Coffin, fixing his twinkle on the kettle-crane.
"TIME, GENTLEMEN, PLEASE."
There was a dead silence, broken by a low, blood-curdling, tremulous moan from the yard; a moan which swelled into a howl so prolonged that it seemed as though it would never cease. Then another dead silence, broken by a dreadful grating death-cry from the woods; only the cry of the screech-owl. Then the landlord looked in and said: "Time, gentlemen, please."
But no one stirred; Mr. Coffin's twinkle was still fixed upon the crane.
"I propose, brother Unbelievers," he said, "that Peter, as being the person in whose house the death-watch is ticking at present, is the fittest person to rise. This will give him a great opportunity of showing his contempt for absurd superstitions."
"That's right, anyhow—'ear! 'ear!" said the other eleven, quite heartily this time; and Peter desperately seized and emptied his glass of gin and water, and—pale as a sheet—slowly rose and buttoned his coat. As he did so, there resounded again, simultaneously, the howl of the yard dog and the death-cry of the screech-owl. Peter grinned a ghastly grin, wiped his brow, said tremulously, "Well—goo' night," and crawled out.
Then Mr. Coffin removed his twinkle once more from the crane, and rose, and beamed round upon the company.