There had been silence for twenty minutes in the circle of our weekly convivial at the "Chain-Harve." The last word had been "ghosts"--or, more accurately, "ghostes." During that twenty minutes' silence, broken only by the puffing of pipes and the setting down of mugs, Mr. Coffin (who had been an undertaker, or something of that sort, up at London, and was considered the leading mind of the convivial club) had sat twinkling his eyes at the kettle-crane in a way that told those who knew him that something was to come out presently. At the end of the twenty minutes Peter broke the silence with:-- "He, he! Ghostes! Them's things as some folks thinks as ther' mebbe more in 'em ner is gen'ly thought--more'n wot some other folks thinks!" Mr. Coffin transferred his twinkle to Peter, and then spread it over the company. But the company were engaged in twinkling for themselves--or, rather, in blinking (which was their substitute for twinkling)--at the kettle-crane. Most of them were wagging their heads very slowly from side to side. "There's some as don't believe nothink," said old Billet. "An' 'ow about Mrs. Skindle and them there lights down in the Low Medder?" said Peter. "And 'ow about Master George's groom?" said Mr. Armstrong, of the Mill. "Ar!" murmured the company. Mr. Coffin had now completed the spreading of his twinkle over the company, and spoke:-- "It seems to me, gentlemen, that this club has a sort of duty in this very matter of ghosts and things. There's a great deal too much ignorance and superstition about." The company, added to by the dropping in of occasional new arrivals, transferred their gaze--no longer a blink--to Mr. Coffin, in feeble surprise. Then, very gradually, the slow wag of the heads dissolved into a slow nod; as they said, very thoughtfully, "Ar!" "It isn't only ghosts," continued Mr. Coffin. "It's superstition generally that it's our duty to put our foot down against. There's all sorts of nonsense about ill-luck from going under ladders, and spilling salt, and crossing knives--it's a sheer disgrace to the century!" "Ar!" said the company, feebly. "I'm glad you agree with me," went on Mr. Coffin, "because I've always felt strongly about the foolishness of these superstitions. Now, I was reading the other day in the paper about a club they have in London--it was there in my time, too; but that brought it to my mind. That club was established to ridicule those very superstitions; and they go at it with a vengeance when they are at it--regularly perspire over it, you might say. Well, now--why shouldn't we--this club--take up this matter too, just to show the people round about how sensible we are--eh?" "Ar!" said the company.