"Matter enough," growled Hankinson. "I have reason to believe that that
jackass of a ghost is on duty to-night."

At the word ghost a pseudo-aristocratic shriek pervaded the atmosphere,
and Mrs. Terwilliger, forgetting her social position for a moment, groaned
"Oh, Hank!" and swooned away. And then the president of the Terwilliger
Three-dollar Shoe Company of Soleton, Massachusetts (Limited), descended
to the kitchen.

Across the sill of the kitchen door lay the culinary treasure whose
lobster croquettes the Prince of Wales had likened unto a dream of
Lucullus. Within the kitchen were signs of disorder. Chairs were upset;
the table was lying flat on its back, with its four legs held rigidly up
in the air; the kitchen library, consisting of a copy of _Marie
Antoinette's Dream-Book_; a yellow-covered novel bearing the title _Little
Lucy; or, The Kitchen-maid who Became a Marchioness_; and _Sixty Soups, by
One who Knows_, lay strewn about the room, the _Dream-Book_ sadly torn,
and _Little Lucy_ disfigured forever with batter. Even to the unpractised
eye it was evident that something had happened, and Mr. Terwilliger felt a
cold chill mounting his spine three sections at a time. Whether it was the
chill or his concern for the prostrate cook that was responsible or not I
cannot say, but for some cause or other Mr. Terwilliger immediately got
down on his knees, in which position he gazed fearfully about him for a
few minutes, and then timidly remarked, "Cook!"

There was no answer.

"Mary, I say. Cook," he whispered, "what the deuce is the meaning of all
this?"