“He’s down in the wheel-pit,” says I, “and he’s got his ax and crowbar. Now whatever you calc’late he’s doin’ there?” Mark was looking pretty mad. “He’s doin’ a little chore for that man Wiggamore,” says he. “He’s goin’ to see to it the m-m-mill don’t run too good. What would h-happen, Plunk, if our water-wheel was to be smashed?” “Why,” says I, “we’d be smashed, too!” “You bet,” says he. “Well,” he says, in a minute, “I dunno ’s I ever heard of a more d-d-disagreeable place to meet a ghost than down in a wheel-pit.” With that he undid the package in his hand and showed it to us. It was a rubber glove, kind of whitish-yellow color, and it was stuffed full of something. “Feel,” says Mark. I took it in my hand and dropped it in a second. You never took hold of anything so cold and clammy-feeling and so _dead_. That’s how it felt—_dead_. “What’s the idee?” says I, sort of shivering. “That,” says Mark, “is the g-g-ghost.” “Ginger!” says I. He took that hand and fastened it to the end of his fish-pole, and then motioned for us to come along. We all got over to the edge of the pit without making a sound, and stuck our heads over. Sure enough, there we could see Jason—just barely see him in the pitch dark, and we could hear him mumbling to himself, pretty nervous and uneasy. “Wisht it was light,” says he. “This hain’t no sort of a place for a man to be at night. Nobody knows what’s prowlin’ around. And a feller can’t do no sort of a workman-like job when he can’t see. But I calc’late I kin put that wheel out of business, jest the same. Anyhow, I kin smash off most of the buckets.” He lighted another match and reached for his ax. Just then Mark let out a sound that ’most made me jump into the pit. It was the dolefulest, sufferingest, miserablest moan you ever heard. The hair around the back of my neck curled right up tight, and I hain’t ever been able to git the kink quite out of it. Scairt! Whew! Say, I’ve been scairt a couple of times, but I hain’t never seen anything that was a patch on what I felt then. I was just going to scramble up and scoot when Mark grabbed me. “Set still,” he whispered. “That was me.” “Oh!” says I. “Well, don’t do it ag’in, or you won’t have _me_ in the audience. I calc’late I heard about all I kin digest.” “You’ll hear worse,” says he. We listened. Jason wasn’t making a sound. Jest standing still and letting his knees rattle together, I calc’late. Perty soon he spoke. “Who’s that?” he says, faint-like. Mark he let out another one of them moans, but this was a better one than the first. It fair made your blood curdle up into hunks. “Ooo-oo!” says Jason, just like that.