years, had he and they fought in that room; but they would never
trouble him nor anybody else again. One by one, had he laid them
out, spoilt, and utterly useless for all haunting purposes. He had
finished off the last German-band ghost that very evening, just
before I came upstairs, and had thrown what was left of it out
through the slit between the window-sashes. He said it would never
be worth calling a ghost again.

"I suppose you will still come yourself, as usual?" I said. "They
would be sorry to miss you, I know."

"Oh, I don't know," he replied; "there's nothing much to come for
now. Unless," he added kindly, "YOU are going to be here. I'll
come if you will sleep here next Christmas Eve."

"I have taken a liking to you," he continued; "you don't fly off,
screeching, when you see a party, and your hair doesn't stand on
end. You've no idea," he said, "how sick I am of seeing people's
hair standing on end."

He said it irritated him.

Just then a slight noise reached us from the yard below, and he
started and turned deathly black.

"You are ill," I cried, springing towards him; "tell me the best
thing to do for you. Shall I drink some brandy, and give you the
ghost of it?"

He remained silent, listening intently for a moment, and then he