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.
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.
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
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.
“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 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.
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:
“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 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 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:
“Now, take notice that this stone has all the epitaph rubbed out. The
name only remains, and that proves that he was a pretty good sort. Here
is another where the epitaph is all gone except the date. Now that is a
good start, isn’t it?”
The young man murmured something about it seeming so, though he was
entirely in the dark about it. Still he knew enough to keep still and
let the ghost tell his story in his own way and in his own time. Many a
time he had managed to secure a fine story for his paper from someone
who had declared that he had nothing to say by judiciously keeping
silence, curbing his curiosity and inquisitiveness, and speaking only
when absolutely necessary. He began to feel that he was going to get
something tonight not often given to mortals, and he mentally arranged
the headlines of the story, for of course he would sell it. Every other
experience save one had been made to yield him so many dollars, and it
was natural that this strange meeting should appeal to him only as a
scoop beyond the power of any mortal to equal. So he discreetly awaited
the pleasure of his ghostly companion.
He wondered if the pebbles hurt the ghost’s feet. He felt a little
delicate about mentioning it, particularly as he could have proposed no
remedy even if the pebbles did hurt. Soon the ghost stopped by a rather
small headstone, and in a reminiscent manner said, between the delicious
whiffs of smoke: