The clock in a distant steeple struck twelve, a dull, unechoing sound. “Simmy,” said Kelly, pointing with his thumb, “what do he be sayin', talkin'--talkin' like one end of a tiliphone?” They both turned toward the bed and listened. “Telephone! Likely there's a party at the other end, then. Where's the other end?” “I don' know,” whispered Kelly. “But I have this in me head, for ye know, when the priest has done his last, 'tis sure he's dhropped his man at the front door of wherever he's goin', wid a letther of inthroduction in his hatband. An' while the man was waitin' for the same to be read an' him certified a thrue corpse, if he had a kettleful of boilin' impatience in himself like Tom Conlon, wouldn't he be passin' the time o' day through the keyhole wid his friends be-yant?” “'Tain't a telephone, then? It's a keyhole, hey?” “Tiliphone or keyhole, he'd be talkin' through it, Conlon would, do ye mind?” Harding looked with some interest. Conlon muttered, and stopped, and muttered again. Harding rose and walked to the bed. Kelly followed tremulously. “Listen, will ye?” said Kelly, suddenly leaning down. “I don' know,” said Harding, with an instinct of hesitation. “I don' know as it's a square game. Maybe he's talkin' of things that ain't healthy to mention. Maybe he's plugged somebody some time, or broke a bank--ain't any more'n likely. What of it?” “Listen, will ye?” “Don' squat on a man when he's down, Kelly.” “'Sh!” “_Hold Tom's hand. Wait for Tom_,” babbled the ghostly voice, a thin, distant sound. “What'd he say? What'd he say?” Kelly was white and trembling. Harding stood up and rubbed his chin reflectively. He did not seem to himself to make it out. He brought a chair, sat down, and leaned close to Conlon to study the matter. “_What's the heart-scald, mother?_” babbled Conlon. “_Where'd ye get it from? Me! Wirra!_” “'Tis spheakin' to ghosteses he is, Simmy, ye take me worrd.” “Come off! He's harking back when he was a kid.” Kelly shook his head solemnly. “He's spheakin' to ghosteses.” “_What's that, mother? Arra! I'm sick, mother. What for? I don' see. Where'm I goin'?_' “You got me,” muttered Harding. “I don' know.” “_Tom'll be good. It's main dark. Hold Tom's hand_.” Kelly was on his knees, saying prayers at terrific speed. “Hear to him!” he stopped to whisper. “Ghosteses! Ora pro nobis--” “_Tom ain't afraid. Naw, he ain't afraid._” Harding went back to his window. The air was heavy and motionless, the stars a little dim. He could see the dark line of the river with an occasional glint upon it, and the outline of the hills beyond.