The young man disclaimed any such intention, and said that he regretted having asked, and apologized so abjectly that at last the poor ghost unbent a little and volunteered the information that the widow who had been such a ministering angel with her cold towels had wedded again in just one year, “and his name is Whipple, and I am just laying for him. If ever I do find him I am going to pulverize him. He wrote that epitaph and my wife thought it such a wonderful poetic effusion that she lost her heart, and common sense. I wait year after year in hopes of meeting him. Have you any idea how many centuries it will take to rub out all that?” The newspaper man told the unhappy ghost that there was no punishment too great for a man guilty of such a pack of doggerel, and he meant it, and made another mental note that he should leave strict orders that no epitaph should be put over his resting place when he should be no more. The master of ceremonies now stood up and announced: “I have the honor to announce that Sergeant Benjamin Davis, who was in the Civil War in the Seventh Regiment of Connecticut Volunteers is here. He participated in sixteen battles and served four years. He will now speak.” The ghost of the young man stood up, and he wore the shreds of his uniform, and so was the only ghost who did not wear what was left of his shroud. He said modestly: “Ben. F. Davis, a sergeant in the Seventh Connecticut Volunteers. Participated in sixteen battles with conspicuous bravery and contracted chronic—” Here he was suddenly interrupted by the leader of society, who said with great concern: “Sir, do not forget that there are ladies present.” “Who is this galoot? By what right do you assume, sir, that I was about to insult these ladies? It is a good job for you that there are ladies present. I would use you for a curry comb otherwise. Now, then, just you close the doors of your face, as Job says. I contracted chronic rheumatism and died of rheumatism of the heart. Have you any objections to make to that?” “No, not at all, only it was probably heart failure, instead of what you say. It is not fashionable to have rheumatism of the heart now, for it is dignified as heart failure. We have heart failure, and appendicitis, and laryngitis—” “Folks die of them just the same, don't they?” “Yes: but it sounds so much more refined.” The soldier boy looked at the man whose refinements were so much greater than the occasion required from head to foot, and then said defiantly: “I don’t see that you make any better looking ghost than the rest of us, and for two cents I would smash that ugly skull of yours, or at least reduce that very evident bump of self-esteem.”