houses.

"Ben Duggan!"

"Vot voss der matter?"

"Jack Denver's dead--killed riding home from the races."

"Vot dat you say?"

Ben repeated.

"Go avay! Go home and go to sleep! You voss shoking--and trunk.
Vat for you gum by my house mit a seely cock mit der bull shtory at
dis hour of der night?"

"It's only too true, Mr Buckolts," said Ben. "I wish to God it
wasn't."

"You've got der yoomps, Pen. Go to der poomp and poomp on your head
and den turn in someveers till ter morning. I tells von of der pot's
to gif you a nip and show you a poonk. Vy! I trink mit Shack Denver
not twelf hour ago!"

But Ben persisted: "I'm not drunk, Mr Buckolts, and I ain't got the
horrors--I wish to God I was an' had. Poor Jack was killed near
Anderson's, riding home, about six o'clock."

Though Ben couldn't see him, he could feel and hear by his tones,
that old Buckolts sat up in bed suddenly.