The Chronic Loafer cautiously opened the door and peered out into the black night. A blinding flash of lightning zigzagged across the heavens and descended to earth in a nearby wheat field, disclosing to his view the clear outlines of a great oak whose limbs were thrashing wildly in the wind. There was a sound of splintering wood, a crash of thunder overhead, then darkness again. The door swung shut with a startled bang. The rain beat violently against the windows.

“The ole tree’s hit agin,” the Loafer cried. “Did ye see that flash? Mighty souls, what a night! I wisht I’d gone home ’fore it begin to come down so heavy. I hevn’t no umbrelly, an’ the Missus’ll never hear me callin’ in sech a storm.”

The store was a gloomy place, lighted as it was by a solitary oil lamp which cast weird shadows in the recesses of the dusty ceiling and over the shelves, laden with their motley collection of[137] crockery and glassware, boxes and cans. There was no fire in the stove, for it was late in the spring, so the atmosphere was damp and chilly.

The G. A. R. Man joined the Loafer at the door.

“Bad, ain’t it?” he said. “I guesst I don’t go home be way o’ the Meth’dis’ buryin’-ground to-night.”

The other laughed and cried, “My sights! ’Fraid o’ the buryin’-ground!”

The pair sauntered back to their places about the cheerless stove. The Storekeeper leaned his chair against the counter, fixed his feet firmly on the rungs and clasped both knees tightly with his hands.

“You can laugh an’ say they ain’t no sech things ez spooks,” he said, “but I notice that you uns an’ most other folks ’hen ye walks be the buryin’-ground at night, cuts th’oo the fields ez fur ’way from it ez ye can git.”

The Loafer reddened. For a moment he beat his feet slowly against the side of the counter on which he had seated himself between the Miller and the Tinsmith. Then he retorted hotly, “I hain’t sayd they was no sech things ez spooks.”

“Mebbe they is an’ mebbe they ain’t,” ventured the Miller in a low tone. “But ef they ain’t, why hesn’t Abe Scissors ben able to git a tenant fer that leetle place o’ his back on the ridge? They sais it hes a ha’nt, an’ tho’ I’ve never seen[138] it, I knows folks that sais they hes, an’ I’ve no reasons to doubt their words.”

The G. A. R. Man nodded his head in assent. “I don’t b’lieve in them ghosts meself, but ’hen it comes to goin’ home be way o’ the Meth’dis’ buryin’-ground at night I allus goes the back road, even ef it is furder.”

There was silence. Outside the rain beat furiously against the windows; in the garret overhead the wind whistled mournfully; from the cellar below came the faint clatter of loose boards as the rats scampered to and fro.

The Storekeeper reached behind him and turned the wick of the lamp up a little higher.

The Miller slipped from his place on the counter and seated himself on the box beside the veteran. He filled and lighted his clay pipe, and began: “My gran’pap used to tell how night after night he heard the churn splashin’ down in his spring-house; an’ how he stepped out once to find out what done it. He seen the sperrit of his first wife churnin’ an’ churnin’, an’ she told him how lest some un ’ud break the spell she’d hev to——”

The Chronic Loafer had glided off the counter and was rolling a keg close to the speaker. He fixed himself comfortably on it; then cried, “Turn up that there light. This dark hurts a felly’s eyes.”

The Tinsmith glanced furtively behind him into the blackness beneath the counter. He pushed[139] himself from his perch, intending to join the little knot about the stove. Hardly had he reached the floor and taken one step when he halted.

“Ssh! What’s that?”

The Miller dropped his pipe. The Storekeeper paled and nervously grasped the back of his chair. The Chronic Loafer arose to his feet, his upraised arms trembling visibly. The G. A. R. Man, with eyes and mouth wide open, sat up rigidly upon his keg.

From the cellar beneath, low, but so distinct as to be heard above the patter of the rain and the rattle of the windows, came the sound of footsteps. It lasted but a moment, and then seemed to die away in the distance.

The Chronic Loafer broke the silence. “Sights! I’m goin’. The Missus’ll be gittin’ worrit.”

He hurried to the door, but as he opened it there was a blinding flash of lightning, a crash of thunder, and the whole building trembled. A gust of wind drove the rain against the windows with redoubled vigor. He slammed the door shut and returned to his keg.

“Wha—what’s that?” exclaimed the G. A. R. Man.

The Storekeeper shook his head mournfully. “It’s the ha’nt that give my pap so much trouble.”

“A ha’nt!” cried the Loafer and the Miller, their teeth chattering.

“Yes,” replied the Storekeeper, leaning his[140] chair back on two legs. “That’s what Pap use to say it was. He seen it. I never did, but ef you uns draws up closer I’ll tell ye what he sayd about it.”

Nothing loath to get as near as possible to each other the men, seated on chairs, kegs and boxes, formed a little circle about the Storekeeper, who began his story in a voice hardly above a whisper.

“My pap, you uns knows, run this here store an’ done a pretty lively trade tell the year ’fore he died. He bo’t it off o’ ole Ed Harmon, who’d kep’ it a long while. You uns may remember Ed, or mebbe ye don’t. He was a mean man ef they ever was one; never hesytatin’ to give short measure in sellin’ butter an’ takin’ long in buyin’; allus buyin’ eggs be the baker’s dozen an’ sellin’ ’em the reg’lar way; usin’ a caliker stick an inch short of the yard. It don’t take many years o’ that kind o’ tradin’ to hurt a man’s repytation in these parts, an’ consequent ’hen he died he’d the name o’ bein’ ’bout the dishonestest felly in the county, ef you uns reck’lect.”

“That I do,” the Miller interposed. “An’ the sugar he sold was that wet ye could ’a’ squeezed a tin o’ wotter outen every pound.”

“My sights!” cried the Loafer.

“Sure,” continued the Storekeeper, “an’ ’cordin’ to Pap, who hed the name fer tellin’ the truth, them was his footsteps we heard jest now.”

[141]

“Sam Hill!” muttered the G. A. R. Man. “His body’s in the Meth’dis’ buryin’-ground.”

The Chronic Loafer cast an anxious glance toward the entrance to the store-room, from which a stairway wound down into the cellar. The Tinsmith shifted his chair closer into the circle. There was a roll of thunder along the mountains, a flash of lightning that seemed to find the earth somewhere among the distant ridges, but the rain was still pouring down in torrents.

“True. That’s what Pap sayd,” the Storekeeper continued in a low, awed tone. “He told me all about it afore he died, an’ I guesst he told me right, fer we’ve heard his footsteps an’ my sugar hes ben wet lately.”

“So my Missus hes ben complainin’—still—but——”

The Storekeeper was slightly ruffled by this interruption and glared for a moment at its author, the Loafer. Then he resumed his narrative.

“It tuk Pap considerable time to build up his trade, but he give square measure, an’ by an’ by the folks begin comin’ here ’stead o’ goin’ to Kishikoquillas. Then the trouble started. One day he found a chip stuck in the scales he used fer buyin’ meat on, so it wouldn’t weigh more’n fifty pounds. He licked me, that he did, tho’ I never done it. Next day he found another stick there, an’ he was that mad he licked me agin. Then I went away fer a week, an’ every mornin’ reg’lar he found[142] that chip. He begin to feel queer ’bout it ’hen he seen I wasn’t responsible. So every day he pulled the chip out, tell final it stopped. He thot it was rats.

“Things run ’long all right fer a year, an’ then folks begin to complain that the sugar was damp, an’ blamed Pap fer wettin’ it to make it weigh. He sayd he didn’t, an’ he didn’t, fer he wasn’t no man to tell nawthin’ but the truth, let alone to treat his sugar dishonest. But the customers begin to drop off buyin’ an’ he to be afraid o’ losin’ his trade. What was more, he seen that sugar he got in the bawre............