I had to laugh; and then a plan of conciliation suggested itself. I
would jolly him, as my political friends have it.

"Have a drink?" I asked.

"No, thanks; I don't indulge," he replied. "Let me offer you a
cigar."

I accepted, and he extracted a very fair-looking weed from his box,
which he handed me. I tried to bite off the end, succeeding only in
biting my tongue, whereat the presence roared with laughter.

"What's the joke now?" I queried, irritated.

"You," he answered. "The idea of any one's being fool enough to try
to bite off the end of a spook cigar strikes me as funny."

From that moment all thought of conciliation vanished, and I
resorted to abuse.

"You are a low-born thing!" I shouted. "And if you don't get out of
here right away I'll break every bone in your body."

"Very well," he answered, coolly, scribbling on a pad close at hand.
"There's the address."

"What address?" I asked.

"Of the cemetery where those bones you are going to break are to be
found. You go in by the side gate, and ask any of the grave-diggers