“Somebody in the house,” I muttered, going on the stage blindly to play my part; “and there isn’t a gun in the castle.”

“Yes there is,” she answered, joyfully, I fancied; “mother brought father’s revolver over yesterday and made me put it in my satchel.  She said we would feel safer at night with it in the house.  Do let me shoot him; I can aim straight, indeed I can!  Why, John, what makes you tremble so?”

“I’m not trembling, you goose!” I snarled; “I can’t find my shoes, that’s all.  Doggone if I’m going to live in a joint like this with ghosts and burglars all over the place.”

Just then an alarming yell ascended from the regions below, followed by a crash and a series of the most picturesque, sulphur-lined oaths that mortal man ever gave vent to.

It was Bunch.  His trademark was on every word.  I could recognize his brimstone vocabulary with my eyes shut.

But what dire fate had befallen him?  Surely, not even an amateur cracksman would give himself and the whole snap away unless the provocation was great.

Lights began to appear all over the house.  Aunt Martha in a weird makeup came out of her room screaming, “What is it?  What is it?” followed by Uncle Peter and his trusty bow and arrow.

I began to pray.  It was all over.  A rosewood casket for Bunch.  Me for the Morgue.

Just as I was ready to rush down to investigate, Tacks came bounding up the stairs, two steps at a time, clad only in his nightie.

Up the stairs, mind you!  The nerve of that kid!

“Gi’me the prize, sister!” he yelled; “I caught the ghost!  I caught him!”

“What do you mean?” I said, shaking him.

Tacks grinned from ear to ear.  “You know they’s a trap door in the hall so’s to get down in the cellar and it ain’t finished yet, so this evening I took the door up and laid heavy paper on it so’s if the ghost walked on it he’d go through and he did, and I get the prize, don’t I, sister?”

I rushed down to the scene of the explosion, followed by my excited household.

Leaning over the yawning cellar trap door I yelled, “Who’s down there?”

“Oh! you go to hell!” came back the voice of the disgusted Bunch, whereupon Aunt Martha almost fainted, while Uncle Peter loaded his bow and arrow and prepared to sell his life dearly.

Great Scott! what a situation!  The man who owned the house nursing his bruises in the muddy cellar while the bunch of interlopers above him clamored for his life.

While I puzzled my dizzy think-factory for a way out of the dilemma there came a terrific knock at the door and Tacks promptly opened it.

“Have you got him?  Have you got him?” inquired the elongated and cadaverous specimen of humanity who burst into the hall and stared at us.

“I seen him early this evening a’hangin’ around these here premises and I ups and chases him twicet, but the skunk outrun me,” the newcomer gurgled, as he excitedly swung a policeman’s billy the size of a fence rail.