"H'I'm no porker," returned the spectre. "H'I'm simply the shide of a poor
abused cook which is hafter revenge."

"Ah!" ejaculated Terwilliger, raising his eyebrows, "this is getting
interesting. You're a spook with a grievance, eh? Against me? I've never
wronged a ghost that I know of."

"No, h'I've no 'ard feelinks against you, sir," answered the ghost. "Hin
fact h'I don't know nothink about you. My trouble's with them Baingletops,
and h'I'm a-pursuin' of 'em. H'I've cut 'em out of two 'undred years of
rent 'ere. They might better 'ave pide me me waiges hin full."

"Oho!" cried Terwilliger; "it's a question of wages, is it? The Bangletops
were hard up?"

"'Ard up? The Baingletops?" laughed the ghost. "When they gets 'ard up the
Baink o' Hengland will be in all the sixty soups mentioned in that there
book."

"You seem to be up in the vernacular," returned Terwilliger, with a smile.
"I'll bet you are an old fraud of a modern ghost."

Here he discharged all six chambers of his pistol into the body of the
spectre.

"No taikers," retorted the ghost, as the bullets whistled through her
chest, and struck deep into the wall on the other side of the kitchen.
"That's a noisy gun you've got, but you carn't ly a ghost with cold lead
hany more than you can ly a corner-stone with a chicken. H'I'm 'ere to sty