“I knowd it,” the Loafer cried triumphantly. “I allus knowd it. I thank you, Teacher, fer backin’ me up with this petickler instance of it. The cattle do talk on Chrisermas Eve.” CHAPTER XII. _The Haunted Store._ The Chronic Loafer cautiously opened the door and peered out into the black night. A blinding flash of lightning zigzagged across the heavens and descended to earth in a nearby wheat field, disclosing to his view the clear outlines of a great oak whose limbs were thrashing wildly in the wind. There was a sound of splintering wood, a crash of thunder overhead, then darkness again. The door swung shut with a startled bang. The rain beat violently against the windows. “The ole tree’s hit agin,” the Loafer cried. “Did ye see that flash? Mighty souls, what a night! I wisht I’d gone home ’fore it begin to come down so heavy. I hevn’t no umbrelly, an’ the Missus’ll never hear me callin’ in sech a storm.” The store was a gloomy place, lighted as it was by a solitary oil lamp which cast weird shadows in the recesses of the dusty ceiling and over the shelves, laden with their motley collection of crockery and glassware, boxes and cans. There was no fire in the stove, for it was late in the spring, so the atmosphere was damp and chilly. The G. A. R. Man joined the Loafer at the door. “Bad, ain’t it?” he said. “I guesst I don’t go home be way o’ the Meth’dis’ buryin’-ground to-night.” The other laughed and cried, “My sights! ’Fraid o’ the buryin’-ground!” The pair sauntered back to their places about the cheerless stove. The Storekeeper leaned his chair against the counter, fixed his feet firmly on the rungs and clasped both knees tightly with his hands. “You can laugh an’ say they ain’t no sech things ez spooks,” he said, “but I notice that you uns an’ most other folks ’hen ye walks be the buryin’-ground at night, cuts th’oo the fields ez fur ’way from it ez ye can git.” The Loafer reddened. For a moment he beat his feet slowly against the side of the counter on which he had seated himself between the Miller and the Tinsmith. Then he retorted hotly, “I hain’t sayd they was no sech things ez spooks.” “Mebbe they is an’ mebbe they ain’t,” ventured the Miller in a low tone. “But ef they ain’t, why hesn’t Abe Scissors ben able to git a tenant fer that leetle place o’ his back on the ridge? They sais it hes a ha’nt, an’ tho’ I’ve never seen it, I knows folks that sais they hes, an’ I’ve no reasons to doubt their words.” The G. A. R. Man nodded his head in assent. “I don’t b’lieve in them ghosts meself, but ’hen it comes to goin’ home be way o’ the Meth’dis’ buryin’-ground at night I allus goes the back road, even ef it is furder.” There was silence. Outside the rain beat furiously against the windows; in the garret overhead the wind whistled mournfully; from the cellar below came the faint clatter of loose boards as the rats scampered to and fro.