"Who kyeers fer th' deal? I d--on't. Now, Joe, I says, t--to th' ole lady, y' see, I says, a young man can't live up a dingy stairs on th' top floor al'ays, and never git no comp'ny. Can't do it. I don't want t' 'rink much, but I c--ome here to git comp'ny. Comp'ny drinks, and I git drunk 'f--fore I know 'fore you--pshaw! deal yerself 'f you want t' play." After a while he put the cards down again, and began: "What think I done wunst? He, he! Went to th' Young Men's Chrissen Soshiashen. Ole lady, you know, coaxed. He! he! You bet! Prayer meetin', Bible class, or somethin'. All slick young fellers 'th side whiskers. Talked pious, an' so genteel, you know. I went there fer comp'ny! Didn' go no more. Druther git drunk at the 'free-and-easy' ever' night, by George, 'n to be a slick kind 'f feller 'th side whiskers a lis'nin' t' myself make purty speeches 'n a prayer Bible class meetin' or such, you know. Hey? w'at ye say? Hey? 'S comp'ny a feller wants, and 's comp'ny a feller's got t' have, by cracky! Hey? W'at ye say? Hey, Joe?" "Blam'd 'f 'tain't," said Joe. "That's w'at them rich fellers goes to the club fer? Hey? w'at ye say, Joe? Hey?" "Yes, of course." "Wish I had a club! Better'n this place to go to. Vail, he used to do a fellow good. If he'd 'a' lived he'd 'a' pulled me out this yer, would, you, know. He got 's eyes onto me, and they say when he got 's eyes onto feller never let go, you know. Done me good. Made me 'shamed. Does feller good t' be 'shamed, Joe. Don't it? Hey? W'at you say?" "Yes," said Joe. "But w'en a feller's lonesome, a young feller, I mean, he's got to have company if he has to go down to Davy Jones's, and play seven-up with Ole Nick. Hey, Joe? W'at you say? Hey?" "I s'pose so," said Joe; "but come, deal, old fellow; don't go to preachin'." I have heard Charley say that he never heard anything half so distinctly in his life as he felt what the apparition said to him when their eyes met at that moment. "God and Huckleberry Street want you, Charley." Charley looked away restively, and then caught the eyes of the ghost again, and this time the ghost said: "And they're going to have you, too." I have heard Charley tell of several other visits they made that night; but, as I said before, even a Christmas yarn and a ghost story must not spin itself out, like Banquo's line, to the crack of doom. However true or authentic a story may be--and you can easily verify this by asking any member of the Christmas Club in Huckleberry Street--however true a yarn may be, it must not be so long that it can never be wound up. The very last of the wretched places they looked in upon was a bare room in a third story. There was a woman sitting on a box in one corner, holding a sick child. A man with golden hair was pacing the floor.