“No,” I said; “I came from the other direction.” “Why,” he meditated, “you must ’a’ smashed ’bout sunup. Did you come over them mountains in the dark?” “No,” I replied; “I came over them yesterday evening. I smashed up about sunset.” “Sundown!” he exclaimed. “Where in thunder’ve ye been all night?” “I slept in the house where I broke down.” “In that there big stone-built house in the trees?” he demanded. “Yes,” I agreed. “Why,” he quavered excitedly, “that there house is haunted! They say if you have to drive past it after dark, you can’t tell which side of the road the big white stone is on.” “I couldn’t tell even before sunset,” I said. “There!” he exclaimed. “Look at that, now! And you slep’ in that house! Did you sleep, honest?” “I slept pretty well,” I said. “Except for a nightmare, I slept all night.” “Well,” he commented, “I wouldn’t go in that there house for a farm, nor sleep in it for my salvation. And you slep’! How in thunder did you get in?” “The boy took me in,” I said. “What sort of a boy?” he queried, his eyes fixed on me with a queer, countrified look of absorbed interest. “A thick-set, freckle-faced boy with a harelip,” I said. “Talk like his mouth was full of mush?” he demanded. “Yes,” I said; “bad case of cleft palate.” “Well!” he exclaimed. “I never did believe in ghosts, and I never did half believe that house was haunted, but I know it now. And you slep’!” “I didn’t see any ghosts,” I retorted irritably. “You seen a ghost for sure,” he rejoined solemnly. “That there harelip boy’s been dead six months.” 1905 SORCERY ISLAND SORCERY ISLAND