His question was answered by the engineer pointing ahead and saying excitedly: 

“There!  Look there!  Don’t you see it?”

“Looking out of the cab window,” said Mr. Pinckney, “I saw about 300 yards ahead of us the headlight of a locomotive.”

“Stop the train, man,” I cried, reaching for the lever.

“Oh, it’s nothing.  It’s what I saw back at the gorge.  It’s Tom Cypher’s engine, No. 33.  There’s no danger of a collision.  The man who is running that ahead of us can run it faster backward than I can this one forward.  Have I seen it before?  Yes, twenty times.  Every engineer on the road knows that engine, and he’s always watching for it when he gets to the gorge.”

“The engine ahead of us was running silently, but smoke was puffing from the stack and the headlight threw out rays of red, green, and white light.  It kept a short distance ahead of us for several miles, and then for a moment we saw a figure on the pilot.  Then the engine rounded a curve and we did not see it again.  We ran by a little station, and at the next, when the operator warned us to keep well back from a wild engine that was ahead, the engineer said nothing.  He was not afraid of a collision.  Just to satisfy my own mind on the matter I sent a telegram to the engine wiper at Sprague, asking him if No. 33 was in.  I received a reply stating that No. 33 had just come in, and that her coal was exhausted and boxes burned out.  I suppose you’ll be inclined to laugh at the story, but just ask any of the boys, although many of them won’t talk about it.  I would not myself if I were running on the road.  It’s unlucky to do so.”

With this comment upon the tale Mr. Pinckney boarded a passing caboose and was soon on his way to Tacoma.  It is believed by Northern Pacific engineers that Thomas Cypher’s spirit still hovers near Eagle gorge.

GHOSTS IN CONNECTICUT

(N.Y. Sun, Sept. 1, 1885)

“There is as much superstition in New-England to-day as there was in those old times when they slashed Quakers and built bonfires for witches.”  It was a New York man who gave expression to this rather startling statement.  He has been summering in Connecticut, and he avers that his talk about native superstition is founded on close observation.  Perhaps it is; anyhow he regaled the Times’s correspondent with some entertaining incidents which he claims establish the truth of his somewhat astonishing theories.

Old Stratford, the whitewashed town between this place and Bridgeport, made famous by mysterious “rappings” many years ago, and more recently celebrated as the scene of poor Rose Clark Ambler’s strange murder, is much concerned over a house which the almost universal verdict pronounces “haunted.”  The family of Elihu Osborn lives in this house, and ghosts have been clambering through it lately in a wonderfully promiscuous fashion.  Two or three families were