the spectral Thing had vanished like a shadow. On its second
appearance, having had a day and a night for meditation, he had
known better than to commit such an outrage upon the possessor of
ghostly powers, and had resorted to prayer instead. This had
answered quite as well, for the phantom pig had dissolved like the
morning mists. While the sun blazed, what with his devotions and
his rabbit's foot and a cross of twigs nailed to a tree. Cookie
felt a fair degree of security. But his teeth chattered in his
head at the thought of approaching night. Meanwhile he could not
in conscience permit me to venture forth into the path of this
horror, which might, for all we knew, be lurking in the jungle
shadows even through the daylight hours. Also, though he did not
avow this motive, I believe he found my company very reassuring.
It is immensely easier to face a ghost in the sustaining presence
of other flesh and blood.

"Cookie," said I sternly, "you've been drinking too much
cocoanut-milk and it has gone to your head. What you saw was just
a plain ordinary pig."

Cookie disputed this, citing the pale hue of the apparition as
against the fact that all our island pigs were black.

"Then there happens to be a blond pig among them that we haven't
seen," I assured him.

But the pig of flesh, Cookie reminded me, was a heavy lumbering
creature. This Shape was silent as a moonbeam. There was also
about it a dreadful appearance of stealth and secrecy--Cookie's
eyes bulged at the recollection. Nothing living but a witch's cat