"There are a great many people who do not like Tug's looks," the clerk went on to say, without noticing the interruption, and looking admiringly at that individual, as though he could not understand why he was not more generally admired; "so it is not surprising that you are suspicious of him. I do not say it with reference to you, for you do not know him; but my opinion is that the people dislike him because of his mind. He knows too much to suit them, and they hate him." By this time Tug had wiped up everything before him, and after transferring the grease and pie crumbs from his lips and beard to his sleeve, the three men were silent, listening to the rain on the outside, and taking turns in looking out of the windows into the darkness. "I suppose the shutters are rattling dismally up at The Locks to-night," Silas Davy said. "And the windows! Lord, how the windows must rattle! I've been told that when there isn't a breath of air the shutters and windows at The Locks go on at a great rate, and they must be at it to-night, for I have never known it to be so oppressive and still before." "And the light," Tug suggested, removing his aim from the stranger a moment, and directing it toward Davy. "Yes, the light, of course," Davy assented. "They say--I don't know who says it in particular, but everybody says it in general--that on a night like this a light appears in the lower rooms, where it disappears and is seen in the front hall; then in the upper hall, and then in an upper room, where it goes out finally, as if someone had been sitting down-stairs, in the dark, and had struck a light to show him up to bed. There is no key to the room where the light disappears, and those who visit the house are not permitted to enter it. I have never seen the light myself, but I have been to the house on windy, noisy days, and it was as silent on the inside as a tomb. The windows and shutters being noisy on quiet nights, I suppose they feel the need of a rest when the wind is blowing." The guest was paying a good deal of attention, and Davy went on talking. "The place has not been occupied in a great many years. The man who built it, and occupied it, and who owns it now, made money in Davy's Bend, and went away to the city to live, where he has grown so rich that he has never sent for the plunder locked up in the rooms; I suppose it is not good enough for him now, for I am told that he is very proud. He has been trying to sell the place ever since, but Davy began going down hill about that time, and the people have been kicking it so sturdily ever since that nobody will take it. And I don't blame them, for it is nothing more than a nest for ghosts, even if it is big, and respectable-looking, and well furnished."