“See here, my good people,” he said, “there is a little mystery here that we can’t explain.  The truth is, there is a story about this house.  It used to belong to the president of a well-known railroad.  That was twenty-five years ago.  They say that one night, when he was driving from a place he had up country, his team was run into at a railway crossing five miles from here—­one of those grade crossings that never ought to have been—­and he was killed and his horses came home at midnight.  ‘They say’ that the people who lived here after that declared that the horses have come home every midnight since.  Now, there’s the story.  They don’t do any harm.  It only takes them a few minutes.  They don’t even trample the driveway, so why not?”

“All the same, I want to go back to town,” said the frightened guest.

“I would stay the night, if I were you,” said the host.  “They won’t come again until to-morrow.”

All the same, when morning came, every one skipped, and as the last of them drove away, the Woman put her hand through the Man’s arm, and smiled as she said:  “It’s all over.  I don’t mind a bit.  When I heard you saying last night, ’They don’t even trample the driveway, so why not?’ I said to myself, ‘Why not?’ indeed.”

“Good girl,” he replied.  “I’ll bet my top hat you grow to be proud of them.”

I don’t know that they ever did, but I do know that they still live there.  I went to school with the son, and whenever any one bragged, he used to say, “Well, we’ve always had a ghost.  You ain’t got that!”

The Youngster threw his lighted cigarette into the air, ran under it, caught it between his lips, and made a bow, as the Doctor broke into a roar of laughter.

“I know that old house,” he said.  “Jamaica Pond.  But see here, Youngster, your idea of ghosts is terribly illogical.  It was the man who was killed, not the horses.  The wrong part of the team walked.”

“You are particular,” replied the Youngster.  “The man did not come back, and the horses did.  I can’t split hairs when it’s a ghost story.  I feel afraid that I have missed my vocation, and that flights in the imagination are more in my line than flights in the air.  I don’t know what you think. I think it’s a mighty good story.  I say, Journalist, do you think I could sell that story?  I’ve never earned a dollar in my life.”

“Well,” laughed the Journalist, “a dollar is just about what you would get for it.”

“If I had been doing that story,” said the Critic, “I should have found a logical explanation for it.”

“Of course you would,” said the Youngster.  “I know one of a haunted house on St. James Street which had an explanation.”

But the Doctor cut him short with:  “Come now, you’ve done your stunt.  No more stories to-night.  Off to bed.  You and I are going to take a run to Paris to-morrow.”

“What for?”