come a-swelling up out of the ground, now, powerful big and round and
bright, behind a comb of trees, like a face looking through prison bars,
and the black shadders and white places begun to creep around, and it was
miserable quiet and still and night-breezy and graveyardy and scary. All
of a sudden Tom whispers:

"Look!--what's that?"

"Don't!" I says. "Don't take a person by surprise that way. I'm 'most
ready to die, anyway, without you doing that."

"Look, I tell you. It's something coming out of the sycamores."

"Don't, Tom!"

"It's terrible tall!"

"Oh, lordy-lordy! let's--"

"Keep still--it's a-coming this way."

He was so excited he could hardly get breath enough to whisper. I had to
look. I couldn't help it. So now we was both on our knees with our chins
on a fence rail and gazing--yes, and gasping too. It was coming down the
road--coming in the shadder of the trees, and you couldn't see it good;
not till it was pretty close to us; then it stepped into a bright splotch
of moonlight and we sunk right down in our tracks--it was Jake Dunlap's
ghost! That was what we said to ourselves.

We couldn't stir for a minute or two; then it was gone We talked about it