It made me excessively angry to be called a blooming Yank. I am a
Yankee, and I have been known to bloom, but I can't stand having a
low-class Britisher apply that term to me as if it were an
opprobrious thing to be, so I tried once more to kick him with my
knee. Again my knee passed through him, and this time took the
policeman himself in the vicinity of his pistol-pocket. The irate
officer turned quickly, raised his club, and struck viciously, not
at the little creature, but at me. He didn't seem to see the jelly
-fish. And then the horrid truth flashed across my mind. The thing in
front of me was a ghost--a miserable relic of some bygone pageant,
and visible only to myself, who have an eye to that sort of thing.
Luckily the bobbie missed his stroke, and as I apologized, telling
him I had St. Vitus's dance and could not control my unhappy leg,
accompanying the apology with a half sovereign--both of which were
accepted--peace reigned, and I shortly had the bliss of seeing the
whole sovereign ride by--that is, I was told that the lady behind
the parasol, which obscured everything but her elbow, was her
Majesty the Queen.

Nothing more of interest happened between this and the end of the
procession, although the little spook in front occasionally turned
and paid me a compliment which would have cost any material creature
his life. But that night something of importance did happen, and it
has been going on ever since. The unlovely creature turned up in my
lodgings just as I was about to retire, and talked in his rasping
voice until long after four o'clock. I ordered him out, and he
declined to go. I struck at him, but it was like hitting smoke.

"All right," said I, putting on my clothes. "If you won't get out, I
will."