like cigar smoke, but inodorous. Then the vision cleared, and I saw a
young man whom I knew by a subtle intuition to be the occupant, seen and
not seen, of chair number thirteen. Evidently he was a traveling
salesman--and a ghost. Of course, a drummer’s ghost sounds
ridiculous--they’re so extremely alive! Or else you would expect a dead
drummer to be particularly dead and not ‘walk.’ This was a most
commonplace-looking ghost, cordial, pushing, businesslike. At the same
time, his face had an expression of utter despair and horror which made
him still more preposterous. Of course it is not nice to let a stranger
speak to one, even on so impersonal a topic as a four of diamonds. But a
ghost--there can’t be any rule of etiquette about talking with a ghost!
My dear, it was dreadful! That forward creature showed me how to play
all the cards, and then begged me to lay them out again, in order that
he might give me some clever points. I was too much amazed and disturbed
to speak. I could only place the cards at his suggestion. This I did so
as not to appear to be listening to the empty air, and be supposed to be
a crazy woman. Presently the ghost spoke again, and told me his story.
“‘Madam,’ he said, ‘I have been riding back and forth on this car ever
since February 22, 189--. Seven months and eleven days. All this time I
have not exchanged a word with anyone. For a drummer, that is pretty
hard, you may believe! You know the story of the Flying Dutchman? Well,
that is very nearly my case. A curse is upon me and will not be removed
until some kind soul----. But I’m getting ahead of my text. That day
there were four of us, traveling for different houses. One of the boys
was in wool, one in baking powder, one in boots and shoes, and myself in
cotton goods. We met on the road, took seats together and fell into
talking shop.
“‘Those fellows told big lies about their sales, Washington’s Birthday
though it was. The baking powder man raised the amount of the bills of
goods which he had sold better than a whole can of his stuff could have
done. I admitted the straight truth, that I had not yet been able to
make a sale. And then I swore--not in a light-minded, chipper style of
verbal trimmings, but a great, round, heaven-defying oath--that I would
sell a case of blue denims on that trip if it took me forever. We became
dry with talk, and when the train stopped at Rivermouth, we went out to
have some beer. It is good there, you know--pardon me, I forgot that I
was speaking to a lady. Well, we had to run to get aboard. I missed my
footing, fell under the wheels, and the next thing that I knew they were
holding an inquest over my remains; while I, disemboweled, was sitting
on a corner of the undertaker’s table, wondering which of the coroner’s
jury was likely to want a case of blue denims.
“‘Then I remembered my wicked oath, and understood that I was a soul
doomed to wander until I could succeed in selling that bill of goods. I
spoke once or twice, offering the denims under value, but nobody noticed
me. Verdict: accidental death; negligence of deceased; railroad
corporation not to blame; deceased got out for beer at his own risk. The
other drummers took charge of the remains, and wrote a beautiful letter
to my relatives about my social qualities and my impressive
conversation. I wish it had been less impressive that time! I might have
lied about my sales, or I might have said that I hoped for better luck.
But after that oath there was nothing for it. Back and forth, back and
forth, on this road, in chair number thirteen, to all eternity. Nobody
suspects my presence. They sit on my knees--I’m playing in luck when it
is a nice baby as it was this afternoon! They pile wraps, bags, even
railway literature on me. They play cards under my nose--and what
duffers some of them are! You, madam, are the first person who has
perceived me; and therefore I ventured to speak to you, meaning no
offense. I can see that you are sorry for me. Now, if you recall the
story of the Flying Dutchman, he was saved by the charity of a good
woman. In fact, Senta married him. Now I’m not asking anything of that
size. I see that you wear a wedding ring, and no doubt you make some
man’s happiness. I wasn’t a marrying man myself, and, naturally, am not
a marrying ghost. And that has nothing to do with the matter anyway. But
if you could--I don’t suppose you would have any use for them--but if
you were disposed to do a turn of good, solid, Christian charity--I
should be everlastingly grateful, and you may have that case of denims
at $72.50. And that quality is quoted to-day at $80. Does it go, madam?’
“The speech of the poor ghost was not very eloquent, but his eyes had an
intense, eager glare, which was terrible. Something--pity, fear, I do
not know what--compelled me. I decided to do without that white and gold
evening cloak. Instead, I gave $72.50 to the ghost and took from him a
receipt for the sum, signed J. Billington Price. Then he smiled
contentedly, thanked me with emotion, and returned to chair number
thirteen. Several times on the journey, although I did not perceive him
again, I felt dazed. When the train arrived at New York, and I, with the
other passengers, dismounted, it seemed to me that a strong hand passed
under my elbow, steadying me down the steps. As I walked the length of
the station my bag--not heavy at any time--appeared to become
weightless. I believe that the parlor-car ghost walked beside me,
carrying the bag, whose handle still remained in my other hand. Indeed,
once or twice I thought I felt the touch of cold fingers against mine.
Since then I have no reason to suppose that the poor ghost is not at
rest. I hope he is.
“But I never expected nor wished for the blue denims. The next day,
however, a dray belonging to a great wholesale house backed up to our
door and delivered a case of denims, with a receipted bill for the same.
What was I to do? I could not go about selling blue denims; I could not
give them away without exciting comment. So I furnished the cottage with
them--and you know the effect on my complexion. Pity me, dear! And
credit me, frivolous woman as I am, with having saved a soul at the
expense of my own vanity. My story is told. What do you think about
it?”
GHOST OF BUCKSTOWN INN.
BY ARNOLD M. ANDERSON.
Several travel-worn drummers sat in the lobby exchanging yarns. It was
Rodney Green’s turn, and he looked wise and began his tale.
“I don’t claim, by any means, that the belief in ghosts is a general
thing in Arkansas, but I do say that I had an experience out there a few
years ago.
“It was late in the fall, and I happened to be in the village of
Buckstown, which desecrates a very limited portion of the State. The
town is about as small and dirty a place as ever I saw, and the
Buckstown Inn is not much above the general character of the place. The
region is inhabited by natives who still cling to all sorts of foolish
superstitions. The inn, in the ante-bellum days, was kept by one who was
said to be the meanest and most crabbed of mortals. The old demon was as
miserly as he was mean, and all his narrow life he hoarded his filthy
lucre with fiendish greed. Report had it also that he had even murdered
his patrons in their beds for their money. What the facts actually were
I don’t know, but even to this day the old inn is held in suspicion. A
lingering effect of former horrors still clouds its memory.
“The present proprietor, Bunk Watson--his real name is Bunker, I
believe--is an altogether different sort of chap--a Southern type, in
fact--one of those shiftless, heedless, happy-go-lucky mortals who loves
strong whiskey and who chews an enormous quid of black tobacco and
smokes a corncob pipe at the same time.
“When the former keeper ‘shuffled off,’ his property fell to a distant
relative, the present keeper, who, with his family, immediately moved in
from a neighboring hamlet and took possession. It was well known that
the old proprietor had accumulated considerable wealth during his
sojourn among the living, but all efforts to discover any treasure upon
the premises had failed, and now the idea of ever finding it was
practically given up. As far as Bunk was concerned, the matter troubled
him little. He had a hard-working wife who ran things the best she could
under the circumstances, and saw that his meals were forthcoming at
their respective intervals. What more could he wish? Why should he care
if there was a treasure buried upon his place? Indeed, it would have
been a sore puzzle for him to know what to do with a fortune unless
perhaps his wife came to his aid.
“Among the stories that hovered in the history of the Buckstown Inn was
one which involved a ghost. In the room where the former keeper had died
peculiar noises were heard at unearthly hours: sighing, moaning, and, in
fact, all the other indications which point to the existence of ghosts,
were said to be present. On account of this the chamber had long since
been abandoned.
“I listened with keen interest to the wonderful tales about the haunted
room, and then suddenly resolved to investigate--to sleep in that
chamber that very night and see for myself all that was to be seen. I
told Buck of my purpose. He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, but
instead of warning me and offering a flood of protests, as I expected,
he merely took his pipe from his mouth, let fly a quart or so of
yellowish juice from between a pair of brown-stained lips, and, opening
one corner of his wide mouth, lazily called out: ‘Jane.’ His wife
appeared, and he intimated that I should settle the matter with the ‘old
woman.’ The prospect of a fee persuaded the wife, and off she went to
arrange for my bed in that ill-fated room.
“At nine o’clock that evening I bid the family good-night, took my
candle, ascended the rickety stairs and entered the chamber of horrors.
The atmosphere was heavy and had a peculiar odor that was not at all
pleasing. However, I latched the door and was soon in bed. Having
propped myself up with pillows, I was prepared to await the coming of
the ghost.
“Overhead the dusty rafters, which once had experienced the sensation of
being whitewashed, but which were now a dirty, yellowish color, were
hung with a fantastic array of cobwebs. The flickering light of the
candle reflected upon the walls and against the ceiling a pyramid of
grotesque shapes, and with this effect being continually disturbed by
the swaying cobwebs, the whole caused the room to appear rather ghostly
after all, and especially so to an imaginative mind.
“I waited and waited for hours, it seemed, but still no ghost. Perhaps
it was afraid of my candle light, so I blew it out. No sooner had I done
this and settled back in bed again than a white hand appeared through
the door, then a whole figure--at last the ghost had come, a white and
sheeted ghost!
“It had come right through the door, although it was locked, and now it
advanced toward the bed. Raising its long, white arm, it pointed a bony
finger at me, and then commanded: ‘Come with me!’ Thereupon it turned to
the door, while instantly I jumped out of bed to follow. Some unseen
power compelled me to obey. The door flew open and the ghost led me down
the stairs, through long halls into the cellar, through mysterious
underground corridors, upstairs again, in and out rooms which I never
dreamed were to be found in that old rambling inn. Finally, through a
small door in the rear, we left the house. I was in my sleeping
garments, but no matter, I had to follow.
“The white form, with a slow and measured tread and as silent as death,
led the way into the orchard. There, under a tree at the farther end, it
pointed to the ground, and in the same ghostly tones before used, said:
“‘Here you will find a great treasure buried.’
“The ghost then disappeared, and I saw it no more. I stood dazed and
trembling. Upon recovering my wits I started to dig, but the chill of
the night air and the scantiness of my night robes made such labor
impracticable. So I decided to leave some mark to identify the place and
come around again at daybreak. I reached up and broke off a limb.
Overcome with my night’s exertions I slept the next morning until a loud
rapping on my door and a croaking voice warned me that it was noon.
“I had intended to leave Buckstown Inn that day, but, prompted by
curiosity and anxious to investigate, I unpacked my gripsack for a
comfortable stay.
“You must understand that this was my first experience with a ghost, and
I feared I might never see another.
“At breakfast my landlady waited on me in silence, though once I
detected her eyes following me with a peculiar expression. She wanted to
ask me how I enjoyed the night, but I would not gratify her by
volunteering a word.
“My host was more outspoken.
“‘Reckon ye didn’t get much sleep,’ said he, with a queer smile.
“‘Did you hear anything?’ I asked.
“‘Well, I did--ye-es,’ he said, with a drawl. ‘But ye didn’t disturb me
any. I knew ye’d hev trouble when ye went in thet room ter sleep.’
“That afternoon I slipped out to the tree. But to my amazement I found
that the twig I had broken from the branches was gone. Finally I found
under the lower trunk of an apple tree an open place from which a small
branch had evidently been wrested. But on looking further, I discovered
that every apple tree in the orchard had been similarly disfigured.
“‘More mysterious than ever,’ I said; ‘but to-night shall decide.’
“That night I pleaded weariness, which no one seemed inclined to
question, and sought my couch earlier.
“‘Goin’ ter try it again?’ asked my host.
“‘Yes; and I’ll stay all winter but what I’ll get even with that ghost,’
I said.
“That night I kept the candle burning until midnight, when I blew it
out.
“Instantly the room was flooded with a soft light, and at the foot of
the bed stood my ghost, the identical ghost of last night.
“Again the bony finger beckoned and a sepulchral voice whispered,
‘Follow me!’ I sprang from the bed, but the figure darted ahead of me.
It flew through the doorway and down the stairs, and I after it. At the
foot of the staircase an unseen hand reached forward and caught my foot
and I fell sprawling headlong.
“But in a second I was on my feet and pursuing the ghost. It had gained
on me a few yards, but I was quicker, and just as we reached the outside
door I nearly touched its robes. They sent a chill through my frame, and
I nearly gave up the pursuit.
“As it passed through the doorway it turned and gave me one look, and I
caught the same malignant light in its eyes that I remembered from the
night before.
“In the open orchard I felt sure I could catch it.
“But my ghost had no intention of allowing me any such opportunity. To
my disgust, it darted backward and into the house, slamming the door in
my face.
“In my frenzy of fear and chagrin I threw myself against the oaken door
with such force that its rusty old hinges yielded and I landed in the
big front room of the inn just in time to see the white skirts of the
ghost flit up the stairs.
“Upstairs I flew after it, and into an old chamber. There, huddled in a
corner, I saw it. In the minute’s delay it had secured a lighted candle
and, as I entered, it advanced to daunt me with bony arm upraised to a
great height.
“‘Caught!’ I cried, throwing my arms around the figure. And I had made
the acquaintance of a real live ghost.
“The white robes fell, and I saw revealed my hostess of Buckstown Inn.
“Next morning, when I threatened to call the police, she confessed to me
that she masqueraded as a ghost to draw visitors to the out-of-the-way
old place, and that she found its tale of being haunted highly
profitable to her.”
THE BURGLAR’S GHOST.
I am not an imaginative man, and no one who knows me can say that I have
ever indulged in sentimental ideas upon any subject. I am rather
predisposed, in fact, to look at everything from a purely practical
standpoint, and this quality has been further developed in me by the
fact that for twenty years I have been an active member of the detective
police force at Westford, a large town in one of our most important
manufacturing districts. A policeman, as most people will readily
believe, has to deal with so much practical life that he has small
opportunity for developing other than practical qualities, and he is
more apt to believe in tangible things than in ideas of a somewhat
superstitious nature. However, I was once under the firm conviction that
I had been largely helped up the ladder of life by the ghost of a once
well-known burglar. I have told the story to many, and have heard it
commented upon in various fashions. Whether the comments were satirical
or practical, it made no difference to me; I had a firm faith at that
time in the truth of my tale.
Eighteen years ago I was a plain clothes officer at Westford. I was then
twenty-three years of age, and very anxious about two matters. First and
foremost I desired promotion; second, I wished to be married. Of course
I was more eager about the second than the first, because my sweetheart,
Alice Moore, was one of the prettiest and cleverest girls in the town;
but I put promotion first for the simple reason that with me promotion
must come before marriage. Knowing this, I was always on the lookout for
a chance of distinguishing myself, and I paid such attention to my
duties that my superiors began to notice me, and foretold a successful
career for me in the future.
One evening in the last week of September, 1873, I was sitting in my
lodgings wondering what I could do to earn the promotion which I so
earnestly wished for. Things were quiet just then in Westford, and I am
afraid I half wished that something dreadful might occur if I only could
have a share in it. I was pursuing this train of thought when I suddenly
heard a voice say, “Good evening, officer.”
I turned sharply around. It was almost dusk and my lamp was not lighted.
For all that, I could see clearly enough a man who was sitting by a
chest of drawers that stood between the door and the window. His chair
stood between the drawers and the door, and I concluded that he had
quietly entered my room and seated himself before addressing me.
“Good evening!” I replied. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
He laughed when I said that--a low, chuckling, rather sly laugh. “No,”
he said, “I dessay not, officer. I’m a very quiet sort of person. You
might say, in fact, noiseless. Just so.”
I looked at him narrowly, feeling considerably surprised and astonished
at his presence. He was a thickly built man, with a square face and
heavy chin. His nose was small, but aggressive; his eyes were little and
overshadowed by heavy eyebrows; I could see them twinkle when he spoke.
As for his dress, it was in keeping with his face.
He wore a rough suit of woolen or frieze; a thick, gayly colored Belcher
neckerchief encircled his bull-like throat, and in his big hands he
continually twirled and twisted a fur cap, made apparently out of the
skin of some favorite dog. As he sat there smiling at me and saying
nothing, it made me feel uncomfortable.
“What do you want with me?” I asked.
“Just a little matter o’ business,” he answered.
“You should have gone to the office,” I said. “We’re not supposed to do
business at home.”
“Right you are, guv’nor,” he replied; “but I wanted to see you. It’s you
that’s got to do my job. If I’d ha’ seen the superintendent he might
ha’ put somebody else on to it. That wouldn’t ha’ suited me. You see,
officer, you’re young, and nat’rally eager-like for promotion. Eh?”
“What is it you want?” I inquired again.
“Ain’t you eager to be promoted?” he reiterated. “Ain’t you now,
officer?”
I saw no reason why I should conceal the fact, even from this strange
visitor. I admitted that I was eager for promotion.
“Ah!” he said, with a satisfied smile; “I’m glad o’ that. It’ll make you
all the keener. Now, officer, you listen to me. I’m a-goin’ to put you
on to a nice little job. Ah! I dessay you’ll be a sergeant before long,
you will. You’ll be complimented and praised for your clever conduck in
this ’ere affair. Mark my words if you ain’t.”
“Out with it,” I said, fancying I saw through the man’s meaning. “You’re
going to split on some of your pals, I suppose, and you’ll want a
reward.”
He shook his head. “A reward,” he said, “wouldn’t be no use to me at
all--no, not if it was a thousand pounds. No, it ain’t nothing to do
with reward. But now, officer, did you ever hear of Light Toed Jim?”
Light Toed Jim! I should have been a poor detective if I had not. Why,
the man known under that sobriquet was one of the cleverest burglars and
thieves in England, and had enjoyed such a famous career that his name
was a household word. At that moment there was an additional interest
attached to him. He had been convicted of burglary at the Northminster
assizes in 1871, and sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude. After
serving nearly two years of his time he had escaped from Portland,
getting away in such clever fashion that he had never been heard of
since. Where he was no one could say; but lately there had been a strong
suspicion among the police that Light Toed Jim was at his old tricks
again.
“Light Toed Jim!” I repeated. “I should think so. Why, what do you know
about him?”
He smiled and nodded his head. “Light Toed Jim,” said he, “is in
Westford at this ’ere hidentical moment. Listen to me, officer. Light
Toed Jim is a-goin’ to crack a crib to-night. Said crib is the mansion
of Miss Singleton, that ’ere rich old lady as lives out on the Mapleton
Road. You know her--awfully rich, with naught but women servants and
animals about the place. There’s some very valyable plate there. That’s
what Light Toed Jim’s after. He’ll get in through the scullery window
about 1 a. m., then he’ll pass through the back and front kitchens and
into the butler’s pantry--only it’s a butleress, ’cos there ain’t no men
at all--and there he’ll set to work on the safe. Some of his late pals
in Portland give him the tip about this ’ere job.”
“How did you come to hear of it?” I asked.
“Never mind, guv’nor. You wouldn’t understand. Now, I wants you to be up
there to-night and to nab Light Toed Jim red-handed, so to speak. It’ll
mean promotion for you, and it’ll suit me down to the ground. You wants
to be about and to watch him enter. Then follow him and dog him. And be
armed, officer, for Jim’ll fight like a tiger if you don’t draw his
teeth first.”
“Now, look here, my man,” said I, “this is all very well, but it’s all
irregular. You must just tell me who you are and how you come to be in
Light Toed Jim’s secrets, and I’ll put it down in black and white.”
I turned away from him to get my writing materials. I was not half a
minute with my back to him, but when I turned round he was gone. The
door was shut, but I had heard no sound from it either opening or
shutting. Quick as thought I darted to it, tore it wide open, and looked
down the narrow staircase. There was no one there. I ran hastily
downstairs into the passage, and found my landlady, Mrs. Marriner,
standing at the open door with a female friend. “Mrs. Marriner,” I said,
breaking in upon their conversation, “which way did that man go who came
downstairs just now?”
Mrs. Marriner looked at me strangely. “There ain’t been no man come
downstairs, Mr. Parker,” said she; “leastways, not this good
three-quarters of an hour, which me and Missis Higgins ’ere, as ’ave
come out to take an airing, her having been ironin’ all this blessed
day, has been standin’ ’ere all the time and ain’t never seen a soul.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “A man came down from my room just now--the man you
sent up twenty minutes since.”
Mrs. Marriner looked at me with an expression betokening the most
profound astonishment. Mrs. Higgins sighed deeply.
“Mr. Parker,” said Mrs. Marriner, “sorry am I to say it, sir, but you’re
either intoxicated or else you’re a-sickening for brain fever, sir.
There ain’t no person entered this door, in or out, for nigh onto an
hour, as me and Missis Higgins ’ere will take our Bible oaths on.”
I went upstairs and looked in the rooms on either side of mine. The man
was not there. I looked under my bed, and of course he was not there. He
must have gone downstairs. But then the women must have seen him. There
was only one door to the house. I gave it up in despair and began to
smoke my pipe. By the time I had drawn the last whiff I decided that if
anyone was “intoxicated,” it was probably Mrs. Marriner and Mrs.
Higgins, and that my strange visitor had departed by the door. I was not
going to believe that he had anything supernatural about him.
I had no duty that night, and as the hours wore on I found myself stern
in my resolve to go up to Miss Singleton’s house and see what I could
make out of my informant’s story. It was my opinion that my late visitor
was a whilom “pal” of Light Toed Jim, and that having become aware of
the latter’s plot, he had, for some reason of his own, decided to split
on his old chum. Thieves’ disagreement is an honest man’s opportunity,
and I determined to solve the truth of the story told me. Lest it should
come to nothing, I decided not to report the matter to my chief. If I
could really capture Light Toed Jim, my success would be all the more
brilliant by being suddenly sprung upon the authorities.