“Oh! you are just the man I wanted. Can you tell a story--a good, lively Christmas story, with a spice of fun, a dash of love, a slice of plum-pudding, a sprinkling of holly and ivy, with a bunch of mistletoe thrown in? And, by the bye, if you have genius enough, a good ghost. Yes, a good, old-fashioned ghost would be capital. They are dying out now, more’s the pity. Yes, I must have a ghost and a country churchyard, with a bowl of punch, if you want it. There are your materials. Now, I want them fixed up into a first-class Christmas story, to fill exactly eight pages, by four o’clock to-morrow afternoon at the latest. Must have it to fit this illustration. Clepston was to have done it, but he has failed me at the last hour. Just like him--he must go and get married just when I want my story. He did it on purpose, because I refused to advance his pay--married out of revenge, just to spite me. Well, what do you say?” I said nothing; for Mr. Culpepper’s rapidity and the novelty of his proposal fairly took my breath away. I had never yet attempted fiction, but there was a certain raciness in Mr. Culpepper’s manner of putting it that urged me to seize my present opportunity. A good ghost-story within just twenty-four hours! A pleasant winter tale that should be read to happy families by happy firesides; by boys at school, their hair standing on end with wild excitement, and their laughter ringing out as only boys’ laughter does; by sweet-faced girls--by everybody, in fact, with a vast amount of pleasure and not a twinge of pain. Thousands whom I should never know would say, “What a dear fellow this story-teller is!” “What a pleasant way he has of putting things!” “What--” “Well, what do you say?” broke in Mr. Culpepper rudely; and I remembered that the story which was to win me such golden opinions from all sorts of people was yet to be written. “I hardly know. Four o’clock to-morrow afternoon? The time is so very short. Could you not extend it?” “Not a moment. Printers waiting now. If I can’t have yours by that time, I must use something else; and I have not a thing to suit. Just look here,” he said pointing to the floor, and glancing ruefully around; “I have spent the day wading through all these things, and there is nothing among the pile. A mass of rubbish, all of it!” My resolution was made; I started up. “Mr. Culpepper, I will try. I will stay up all night; and if there be a ghost yet unlaid, a pudding yet unmade, a piece of holly yet ungathered, or a bunch of mistletoe that has not yet done duty, you shall have them all by four o’clock to-morrow afternoon.” “Now, I rely on you, mind. Four o’clock sharp. Let it be brisk and frosty, bright as the holly-berries, and soothing as a glass of punch! We owe you a little account, I believe. Here it is, and now good-by till to-morrow afternoon.”