Mr. Blows eyed her suspiciously, but she sat thinking and staring at the floor.

“I s’pose we shall have to give the money back now,” she said, at last.

“Money!” said the other; “what money?”

“Money that was collected for us,” replied his wife.  “One ’undered and eighty-three pounds seven shillings and fourpence.”

Mr. Blows took a long breath.  “Ow much?” he said, faintly; “say it agin.”

His wife obeyed.

“Show it to me,” said the other, in trembling tones; “let’s ’ave a look at it.  Let’s ’old some of it.”

“I can’t,” was the reply; “there’s a committee of the Camels took charge of it, and they pay my rent and allow me ten shillings a week.  Now I s’pose it’ll have to be given back?”

“Don’t you talk nonsense,” said Mr. Blows, violently.  “You go to them interfering Camels and say you want your money—­all of it.  Say you’re going to Australia.  Say it was my last dying wish.”

Mrs. Blows puckered her brow.

“I’ll keep quiet upstairs till you’ve got it,” continued her husband, rapidly.  “There was only two men saw me, and I can see now that they thought I was my own ghost.  Send the kids off to your mother for a few days.”

His wife sent them off next morning, and a little later was able to tell him that his surmise as to his friends’ mistake was correct.  All Gravelton was thrilled by the news that the spiritual part of Mr. John Blows was walking the earth, and much exercised as to his reasons for so doing.

“Seemed such a monkey trick for ’im to do,” complained Mr. Carter, to the listening circle at the Peal o’ Bells. “‘I’m a-looking at you, Joe,’ he ses, and he waggled his ’ead as if it was made of india-rubber.”

“He’d got something on ’is mind what he wanted to tell you,” said a listener, severely; “you ought to ’ave stopped, Joe, and asked ’im what it was.”

“I think I see myself,” said the shivering Mr. Carter.  “I think I see myself.”

“Then he wouldn’t ’ave troubled you any more,” said the other.

Mr. Carter turned pale and eyed him fixedly.  “P’r’aps it was only a death-warning,” said another man.

“What d’ye mean, ’only a death-warning’?” demanded the unfortunate Mr. Carter; “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I ‘ad an uncle o’ mine see a ghost once,” said a third man, anxious to relieve the tension.

“And what ’appened?” inquired the first speaker.  “I’ll tell you after Joe’s gone,” said the other, with rare consideration.

Mr. Carter called for some more beer and told the barmaid to put a little gin in it.  In a pitiable state of “nerves” he sat at the extreme end of a bench, and felt that he was an object of unwholesome interest to his acquaintances.  The finishing touch was put to his discomfiture when a well-meaning friend in a vague and disjointed way advised him to give up drink, swearing, and any other bad habits which he might have contracted.