like this! It would be an impudent intrusion. He wants to enter!... What
is it? A new sort of snobbishness or what?"

I laughed outright at this original view of spiritism--or whatever the
ghost craze is called. Even Bunter himself condescended to smile. But it
was an austere, quickly vanished smile. A man in his almost, I may say,
tragic position couldn't be expected--you understand. He was really
worried. He was ready eventually to put up with any dirty trick in the
course of the voyage. A man could not expect much consideration should
he find himself at the mercy of a fellow like Johns. A misfortune is
a misfortune, and there's an end of it. But to be bored by mean,
low-spirited, inane ghost stories in the Johns style, all the way out
to Calcutta and back again, was an intolerable apprehension to be under.
Spiritism was indeed a solemn subject to think about in that light.
Dreadful, even!

Poor fellow! Little we both thought that before very long he himself...
However, I could give him no comfort. I was rather appalled myself.

Bunter had also another annoyance that day. A confounded berthing master
came on board on some pretence or other, but in reality, Bunter thought,
simply impelled by an inconvenient curiosity--inconvenient to Bunter,
that is. After some beating about the bush, that man suddenly said:

"I can't help thinking. I've seen you before somewhere, Mr. Mate. If I
heard your name, perhaps Bunter--"

That's the worst of a life with a mystery in it--he was much alarmed. It
was very likely that the man had seen him before--worse luck to his
excellent memory. Bunter himself could not be expected to remember every