Cook or Streaker went overhead after dark, we knew we should
presently hear a bump on the ceiling; and this took place so
constantly, that it was as if a fighting man were engaged to go
about the house, administering a touch of his art which I believe
is called The Auctioneer, to every domestic he met with.

It was in vain to do anything. It was in vain to be frightened,
for the moment in one's own person, by a real owl, and then to show
the owl. It was in vain to discover, by striking an accidental
discord on the piano, that Turk always howled at particular notes
and combinations. It was in vain to be a Rhadamanthus with the
bells, and if an unfortunate bell rang without leave, to have it
down inexorably and silence it. It was in vain to fire up
chimneys, let torches down the well, charge furiously into
suspected rooms and recesses. We changed servants, and it was no
better. The new set ran away, and a third set came, and it was no
better. At last, our comfortable housekeeping got to be so
disorganised and wretched, that I one night dejectedly said to my
sister: "Patty, I begin to despair of our getting people to go on
with us here, and I think we must give this up."

My sister, who is a woman of immense spirit, replied, "No, John,
don't give it up. Don't be beaten, John. There is another way."

"And what is that?" said I.

"John," returned my sister, "if we are not to be driven out of this
house, and that for no reason whatever, that is apparent to you or
me, we must help ourselves and take the house wholly and solely
into our own hands."