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.
***
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
THE BEGINNING OF THE ACQUAINTANCE 9
CHAPTER II.
THE REPORTER MEETS THE LEADER OF THE FOUR HUNDRED 46
CHAPTER III.
THE GAMBLER'S PENANCE 59
CHAPTER IV.
THE MENDED GHOST 78
CHAPTER V.
THE PRINCESS FROM EGYPT 91
CHAPTER VI.
THE GHOSTS TELL STORIES, AND COMPARE NOTES 141
CHAPTER VIII.
THE GRAND BALL, CONVENTION AND END OF IT ALL 203
***
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
North porch of Trinity Church, and the first meeting of the
sociable ghost and the newspaper man Frontispiece
“Drat that toe! I'm sure I broke it off” 33
“I flatter myself that the decorations are fine” 54
“Did you say that to me?” 62
“I won't play if such favoritism is shown” 76
The mended ghost 79
“But you must join us” 87
“Forget it, forget it!” 95
The Princess Shep 109
With a smile of ineffable sweetness she vanished 120
“Don't rouse the sleeping lion” 122
“I found her sitting at the piano” 154
They had evidently found the buffet 166
The dance and cake walk 178
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
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.
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, 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.
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.
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:
“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 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 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