“A family like the Kerr-Andersons,” began Mr. Puce, chuckling--but suddenly found, to his astonishment, that he was shouting at the top of his voice: anyhow, it sounded so. However, he began again, much lower, but still chuckling: “Say, listen, Mr. Ghost, a family like the Kerr-Andersons might have afforded a head and a suit of clothes for their family ghost. Sir, you are one big bum phantom!” Again, unaccountably, Mr. Puce found himself shouting at the top of his voice. “I am going on counting,” he added grimly. And, his automatic levelled at the thing’s heart, the gentleman from America went on counting. His voice was steady. “Five ... six....” He sat crouched at the head of the bed, his eyes never off the thing’s breast. Phantom nothing! He didn’t believe in that no-head bunk. What the hell! He thought of getting a little nearer the foot of the bed and catching the thing a whack on that invisible head of his, but decided to stay where he was. “Seven ... eight....” He hadn’t seen the hands before. Gee, some hands! And arms! Holy Moses, he’d got long arms to him, he had.... “Nine!” said the gentleman from America. Christopher and Columbus, but this would make some tale back home! Yes, sir! Not a bad idea of Quillier’s, that, though! Those arms. Long as old glory ... long as the bed! Not bad for _Sir_ Cyril Quillier, that idea.... “Ten, you swine!” yelled the gentleman from America and fired. Someone laughed. Mr. Puce quite distinctly heard himself laughing, and that made him laugh again. Fur goodness’ sake, what a shot! Missed from that distance! His eyes, as he made to take aim again, were bothered by the drops of sweat from his forehead. “Aw, what the hell!” said Mr. Puce, and fired again. The silence after the second shot was like a black cloud on the darkness. Mr. Puce thought out the wickedest word he knew, and said it. Well, he wasn’t going to miss again. No, sir! His hand was steady as iron, too. Iron was his second name. And again the gentleman from America found it quite delicious, the feeling that he was not frightened. Attaboy! The drops of sweat from his forehead bothered him, though. Aw, what the hell, that was only excitement. He raised his arm for the third shot. Jupiter and Jane, but he’d learn that ghost to stop ghosting! He was certainly sorry for that ghost. He wished, though, that he could concentrate more on the actual body of the headless thing. There it was, darn it, at the foot of the bed, staring at him--well, it would have been staring at him if it had a head. Aw, of course it had a head! It was only Quillier with his lousy face in a black wrap. _Sir_ Cyril Quillier’d get one piece of lead in him this time, though. His own fault, the bastard. “Say, listen, Quillier,” said the gentleman from America, “I want to tell you that unless you quit you are a corpse. Now I mean it, sure as my name is Howard Cornelius Puce. I have been shooting to miss so far. Yes, sir. But I am now _an_noyed. You get me, kid?”