“There’s nothing to fear,” said the other. “I don’t believe for a moment that ghosts could really-hurt one. In fact my father used to confess that it was only the unpleasantness of the thing that upset him, and that for all practical purposes Jerry’s fingers might have been made of cottonwool for all the harm they could do.”
“That’s all very fine,” said the last speaker again; “a ghost story is a ghost story, sir; but when a gentleman tells a tale of a ghost in the house in which one is going to sleep, I call it most ungentlemanly!”
“Pooh! nonsense!” said the old gentleman, rising; “ghosts can’t hurt you. For my own part, I should rather like to see one. Good night, gentlemen.”
“Good night,” said the others. “And I only hope Jerry’ll pay you a visit,” added the nervous man as the door closed.
“Bring some more whisky, George,” said a stout commercial; “I want keeping up when the talk turns this way.”
“Shall I light the gas, Mr. Malcolm?” said George.
“No; the fire’s very comfortable,” said the traveller. “Now, gentlemen, any of you know any more?”
“I think we’ve had enough,” said another man; “we shall be thinking we see spirits next, and we’re not all like the old gentleman who’s just gone.”
“Old humbug!” said Hirst. “I should like to put him to the test. Suppose I dress up as Jerry Bundler and go and give him a chance of displaying his courage?”
“Bravo!” said Malcolm, huskily, drowning one or two faint “Noes.” “Just for the joke, gentlemen.”