And that is the tale of Mr. Skelmersdale in Fairyland just as
he told it to me.


6. THE STORY OF THE INEXPERIENCED GHOST

The scene amidst which Clayton told his last story comes back very
vividly to my mind. There he sat, for the greater part of the time,
in the corner of the authentic settle by the spacious open fire, and
Sanderson sat beside him smoking the Broseley clay that bore his name.
There was Evans, and that marvel among actors, Wish, who is also a
modest man. We had all come down to the Mermaid Club that Saturday
morning, except Clayton, who had slept there overnight--which indeed
gave him the opening of his story. We had golfed until golfing was
invisible; we had dined, and we were in that mood of tranquil
kindliness when men will suffer a story. When Clayton began to tell
one, we naturally supposed he was lying. It may be that indeed he was
lying--of that the reader will speedily be able to judge as well as I.
He began, it is true, with an air of matter-of-fact anecdote, but
that we thought was only the incurable artifice of the man.

"I say!" he remarked, after a long consideration of the upward
rain of sparks from the log that Sanderson had thumped, "you know
I was alone here last night?"

"Except for the domestics," said Wish.

"Who sleep in the other wing," said Clayton. "Yes. Well--" He pulled
at his cigar for some little time as though he still hesitated about
his confidence. Then he said, quite quietly, "I caught a ghost!"