The Sociable Ghost.

Being the adventures of a reporter who was invited by the sociable ghost to a grand banquet, ball, and convention under the ground of old trinity churchyard. A true tale of the things he saw and did not see while he was not there.

Written down by Olive Harper and another.

Illustrated by Thomas McIlvaine and A. W. Schwartz.

“ The breezy call of incense breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed: The cock's shrill clarion or the echoing horn No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.”

(COPYRIGHT 1903, BY J. S. Ogilvie Publishing Company.)

New York: J. S. Ogilvie Publishing Company, 57 Rose Street.

List of Illustrations.

N.B.—While other books have pictures “taken from life,” it should be noticed that those In this book are taken from death.

Dedication.

To all who are able to read between the lines, and understand the real purpose and meaning of this book, it is dedicated with the sincere friendship of the authors.

Chapter I.THE BEGINNING OF THE ACQUAINTANCE

[9] At the northwestern end of Trinity Church stands a clump of bushes under a tree, and lying under both bushes and tree is a large, flat stone with the inscription quite effaced. It is the entrance to one of the old family vaults. Beneath this dense shrubbery in the darkness at night sat a young man. The hour was so late that even in that busy neighborhood the lights were few and far between, except in the tall newspaper offices up the street.

Few people could be seen on the great thoroughfare which but a few hours before had been so animated. Stillness reigned save for the occasional train of cars now and then whizzing by at the back, and the Broadway cars shooting along at great and uninterrupted speed in front.

[10] The young man was not ill nor out of employ, as the notebook and pencils in his pocket would show. Yet he was plainly out of sorts with everything.

A little dog came sniffing around him and he kicked it viciously, and a starved kitten crept timidly up to him, whereat he picked a piece of stone from the slab and threw it at the little creature which, frightened, scampered away in the darkness.

Aroused thus from his reverie, the young man looked and felt more miserable than ever. He was surprised at himself, for this was the first time in his life that he had ever made a movement to harm an animal. His conscience pricked him and he did not like the sensation.

From all this it may be inferred that the young man was in love, and that was the truth; and worse than all, the girl of his choice was now as unattainable as one of the stars in the Milky Way. First of all, she was the only daughter of a millionaire, and secondly, she was to be married the next day to an impecunious nobleman from sunny France. Thirdly, she had eyes only for the grand title. And that was why this young man sat alone in the darkest corner of Trinity churchyard, kicking dogs and stoning cats.

That very day his chief had given him an assignment to go and write a description of the wedding presents. He had turned in his copy, [11] and not waiting to find out if there was anything else to do, went out, and with the instinct of a hurt dog, had chosen the darkest spot he knew of, and had crept down to this place, which even in daylight is gloomy, prepared to suffer as much as he wished to, unknown to anyone. If he went home he must see his adoring mother. He was not prepared for that. He felt that he could not bear the scrutiny of her soft but penetrating glance until he had gotten over the worst. He knew well that she would see his trouble, even though he said no word, and that she would wait for him to speak. But, even this unspoken sympathy was more than he could endure. He intended to fight it out alone, now and in the darkness, shut out from human kind and curious scrutiny.

A fine old pipe and a paper of tobacco, not yet opened, and a box of matches were in his pocket, but he was in no mood for the soothing influence of the weed. In another pocket was a flask of good whiskey which he always carried for such emergencies as might arise in his profession as a reporter, but it was full and untouched. He had forgotten that he had it.

[12] The noises of the great city were settling down to a soft hum as it approached midnight. The trains and electric cars were fewer now, while the throbbing of the newspaper presses away up on Park Row sounded clear and distinct in his ears as the other noises ceased. The sweet calm of a mild May night fell unconsciously upon him and brought with it a feeling almost of resignation.

Suddenly he became aware that he was not alone. Amazed and bewildered, he saw that the old graveyard was waking up, and that from every grave issued a shade which took form as it rose fully free from the earth.

A shadowy figure quite near him appeared entirely ignorant of his presence, and as soon as his cerements were free from the mold of the grave from which he had come, gave an audible sniff, shook himself so that his bones rattled like a bag of dry oyster shells, and as he did so said:

“Zounds and pea blossoms! What wouldn’t I give for a good pipe full of tobacco! I’ve a notion to stay dead.”

Saying this the loose-jointed ghost threw one leg over his tombstone and began to drum on it with his heels, while he folded his bony arms with supreme disgust.

[13] The newspaper man, now all alert to the situation, hurriedly opened the paper of tobacco and filling his pipe, which was of that warm, rich hue of brown so dear to the heart of the smoker as the result of many hours of solitude, and much copy, he lighted it and sent out a couple of whiffs to pave the way for his voice which followed the puffs of smoke. The ghost still sat drumming with his heels on the stone and watched the operation.

“If I—may I—offer you my pipe?” stammered the young man.

“You may, indeed, and be sure of the thanks of a man who has not smoked for so long that he has almost forgotten how it tastes.”

The ghost sighed so heavily that the rags fluttered around as he drew himself up with dignity, at the same time covering his breast bone with the morsels of his shroud. He received the pipe most graciously and enjoyed it with infinite gusto, though, to be sure, the smoke seemed to ooze out afterwards from all over his angular anatomy.

The little heart of fire glowed brightly in the bowl of the pipe, and as the rich cloud of smoke gradually enveloped the ghost, it told more eloquently than words could have done of his enjoyment. The newspaper man stood ready to fill it up again, and it suddenly occurred to him that possibly the contents of the small flask in his pocket might prove acceptable, so he made bold to offer it, saying:

[14] “I have a little old whiskey, if you ever indulge—”

“Indulge! Dear sir, you are a Christian! I have not had a snifter for—as many years as I have been dead. Tears enough to float a seventy-four gun ship have bedewed my grave, but nobody has ever thought of pouring out a little good rum. Ah, there is a flavor about rum so rich and fine that it makes one think of all the molasses in the world boiled down into one bottle. Here’s to your health; your very good health, the health of your wife, your children, your mother, and hoping that your bottle may never be empty!”

With every fresh sentiment the ghost lifted the bottle to his mouth, and at last handed that and the pipe back with evident reluctance. The pipe was now cold.

“Would you care to smoke again?” asked the young man.

“I would indeed, my good sir. I cannot tell you the comfort you have given me on this occasion, an occasion only too trying to the most hardened ghost.”

“May I ask the nature of it?”

“You may; you may. I owe you that much. But, before I do, let me move around so that I cannot see that fellow’s headstone. It makes me sick. Just see that epitaph. I knew the [15] chap, and all about him. The epitaph tells how brave he was in the Mexican war where he fell a hero. Instead of dying like a hero, he ran like a whitehead—he did—and caught his foot in a vine and fell into a cactus bush and was kicked to death by a Roman-nosed mule with one loose shoe. It was that loose shoe that did the business.”

Here the ghost fell to puffing again with a vigor born of vexation and disgust. The newspaper man now saw that there were many other forms quite as unsubstantial as this one walking around slowly. He noticed also that they kicked vigorously at some of the headstones as they passed, and that they all appeared to have and show a special hatred for some dark objects scattered among the graves. The young man could not resist the desire to know why the other ghosts seemed to be so angry. The ghost who was still smoking with evident pleasure, said:

“Oh, the usual thing.”

“And what is that, if I may ask?”

“Oh, just as if it is not enough to be dead and not have your passport yet! Here come a lot of fools and stick flowers over your grave. It is true that we do not have so much to complain of in this respect as some of the newer cemeteries do. The most of us have been here for [16] so long that we have no relatives to come here and leave them, and the public thinks it is quite honor enough to be buried here. Other cemeteries may be forgotten or removed, but this one is as solid as the rock of Gibraltar. It is honeycombed about as much too. And there are flowers enough growing in their proper places without sticking more around. We don’t care so much for sentiment as people seem to think we do. We have learned the value of it. We have grown practical.”

The newspaper man held out his hand for the pipe to fill it again, gently asking the ghost to tell him what this special occasion might be, adding that he would be very grateful for anything that the ghost might be willing to impart, as probably he would never have a better chance to learn.

The other ghosts sauntered along, looking enviously at this one as he sat there smoking vehemently and reflecting. It actually appeared that the ghosts could see and that they looked at him, though in the very nature of things they ought not to be able to see without eyes. Their efforts to appear entirely unconcerned while the favored one sat smoking were funny, or would have been so under any other circumstances.

[17] The young journalist had mentally christened this as the Sociable Ghost, and he waited silently, observing him while he did so, and pondered on the delight of the smoker as he in time became conscious of the glances of envy and overwhelming smoke-hunger of the other ghosts. They evidently would have done anything for just one whiff at that pipe, but they saw that there was nothing to hope for, and that they were confronting another bloated monopoly. But they all ranged themselves in line with apparent carelessness, so that the night wind should waft the smoke toward them. They sniffed the smoke eagerly and looked as though they would like to annihilate the smoker.

Apparently unnoticing and unconcerned, the sociable ghost continued to smoke as though reflecting on what he should say to this young man, and possibly it occurred to him that if he told all there was to say too soon, the young man might go away, and there was still quite a lot of tobacco in the paper, and some more of the whiskey which he had left in the flask for good manners. He could not jeopardize what might be his last chance.

“There is a sort of sameness here,” said the ghost irrelevantly, with a comprehensive wave of the hand, “particularly in the architecture.” And [18] then he suddenly kicked at a bone which had attracted his attention, though how it had escaped the attention of Floyd, whose whole life is spent in trying to keep the place immaculately clean is a mystery. The young man thought perhaps the little dog had brought it in. But, however it had come there, it seemed to annoy the ghost greatly. He said angrily:

“There’s reverence for you! There’s respect and sentiment. When I was a small shaver I regarded a graveyard as a sacred place, and scarcely dared to let my little feet fall for fear they might weigh too heavily on the sainted dead below. 'Sainted dead!' Now that is a good one, too! Well, perhaps familiarity does breed contempt. If you will excuse me for mentioning it, my pipe is out,” remarked the ghost rather abruptly. The young man filled it, and at the same time the thought intruded itself into his mind that the ghost had said “My pipe.” The ghost took it gracefully and after a couple of puffs said:

“If you like, we will walk around a little while I smoke this last pipe, for I shall soon have sights to show you, as well as things to tell, and must hurry before we begin the carnival.”

“Begin what?” asked the young man a little nervously.

[19] “Well, we have a sort of convention of all the ghosts of this city and some delegations from other places, some from quite a distance, I believe. We are to have a dance after some speech-making and a banquet. There will also be some general amusements such as are permitted in good society. After that we do our penance—that is some regard it in that light, but I do not for it makes the stone lie heavy over my head.”

As the Sociable Ghost said that he waved his hand indefinitely and stood up on his skeleton feet and prepared to walk.

“As we go along I will tell you many things that never came to your knowledge, and they may be of service to you in after life. If I had known all that I am going to show you and tell you tonight before I died, I might have done some things and not done others, and so shortened my probation a good while. I then would never have been stuck under this lying stone.”

In the meantime the number of ghosts grew larger so rapidly that it seemed there would soon be room for no more. The ghost said:

“The most of the ghosts that you see here tonight above ground are invited guests, and they come because the march of civilization as you call it, has left them no place where they might hold a reunion of their own, for it is only in [20] settled cemeteries that there can be such a function as you shall see here tonight—that is if you wish to remain.”

The newspaper man hastily signified that he would indeed like to be present at such a function. Up to the present time in his career as a reporter he had never flinched from anything in the way of sight-seeing, and after having witnessed so much that was strange and hazardous he was not going to flinch now. The ghost continued:

“The whole place is honeycombed with vaults which we can at will transform into a place befitting the occasion. This is done by means of certain powers given us, but before I go on I wish you to take particular notice of my headstone. Why, I will tell you later. I know all the ghosts belonging to this place and many more, and whatever I may say about them will be truthful history and no one will say that I have ever belied him.”

The young man hastened to remark that he was sure of that, adding that he had always heard of the chivalric manner in which the men of the past generations spoke of others, and especially he admired the reverence which they showed towards all women, which was very beautiful.

[21] A strange, crackling laugh was the answer to this. It sent the cold chills galloping up and down the reporter's spine. It also checked any further expression of his admiration of bygone manners.

“Young man, you are positively refreshing! We did regard all women except our own and the ugly ones with the greatest consideration. That has been the rule since the world began, and will be unto the end. But to resume. Look now at my headstone. I was a rich man in my day and time and had every reason to expect a fine monument with a weeping willow on it or at least a cherub, and a nice big slab. Just see what I got! It reminds me of one Christmas morning when after I had been extra good for three months hoping to get a bright red sled, I found a copy of Sanford and Merton in my stocking. I wonder I didn’t turn out to be a pirate! Maybe I didn’t go out behind the barn and tear the thing up, and lie like a little imp when they found out the book was gone. Since then I made it a point to lick every man by the name of Sanford or Merton that I ever met. Fool names, both of them.”

“I don’t blame you a bit,” said the young man with spirit, as the remembrance of much the same experience flitted across his mind. The Sociable Ghost continued:

[22] “Pardon me for interrupting—I am a little out of practice in telling a story. To take up the thread of my narrative. Here you see a measly little slab of red sandstone, and no sign of the little cherub that sits up aloft watching out for the safety of poor Jack. I was a captain and commanded my own ship. She was as fine a vessel as ever rode out a gale. I loved every timber in her hull and every rope on the rigging and every spar and mast and sail as women love their young ones.”

“I can quite understand that,” assented the young man.

“Well, my ship made me a rich man. My relict, to offset the strict economy that she showed in the matter of stone, had a lot of stuff about my noble qualities and my pious—and all that. So much indeed, that not half shows above ground. All of this makes me just so much work and dirty work. Digging down in it without implements! You may see where it says that I sailed to Liverpool, and so I did, once or twice, but the most of my voyages were to the West Indies and to Africa. I brought cargoes of rum and molasses for the merchants who were in the business here then, and who were not ashamed of working in their own warehouses, and whose descendants today put on many grand airs. They [23] talk about their ancestors, as though they had been of some superior clay. I hate airs, and always did. Nine out of ten of these old merchants dealt in either slaves or rum. The slaves came from the coast of Africa. I brought them for the account of these people whose descendants put on the airs. I suppose from the legend on my headstone if I had left any descendants they would have put on quite as many airs. I am glad I did not. As I said, I hate airs.”

“I think any right-feeling person does,” hazarded the reporter, who was a little in doubt as to the outcome of this conversation.

“I held my wife so close in money matters,” continued the ghost reminiscently, “being thrifty, and looking forward to the time when I should be able to stay on shore, that I never let her know how much I had. Later, when she got control of all my earnings she had so profited by my example and teachings that—well, you see what a headstone she gave me. I had done many things for that money—things that I now wish that I had not done. I taught her economy and by George! when she had a chance to pay me in my own coin, she did it and she did it well. Just look at that miserable chunk of old sandstone all covered with a lot of da—I mean a lot of untruthful stuff that will keep me at it I don’t [24] know how many years yet. If she had known she could not have revenged herself on me worse. She gave all my clothes and a puncheon of good rum to the fool sculptor, and I am just waiting for him to come down here. If he ever does, I won’t do a thing to him but make him think he mistook his vocation and ought to have been a boiler maker and stayed safely in one of his iron-clad boilers.”

As the angry ghost delivered himself of this speech, he somehow took on such a fierce expression, shown more in attitude than feature—since he had no features—that the young man was sincerely glad that he had not been guilty of carving the objectionable stuff on the fast crumbling stone. As they walked along the ghost continued: