In another two seconds George's red nightcap appeared followed by a
face that was literally livid with terror.
"Let me up for Goad's sake," he gasped, "or he'll hev me by the leg!"
"He! who?" asked the Colonel, not without a thrill of superstitious
fear, as he dragged the panting man through the hole.
But George would give no answer until he was out of the grave. Indeed
had it not been for the Colonel's eager entreaties, backed to some
extent by actual force, he would by this time have been out of the
summer-house also, and half-way down the mount.
"What is it?" roared the Colonel in the pit to George, who shivering
with terror was standing on its edge.
"It's a blessed ghost, that's what it is, Colonel," answered George,
keeping his eyes fixed upon the hole as though he momentarily expected
to see the object of his fears emerge.
"Nonsense," said Harold doubtfully. "What rubbish you talk. What sort
of a ghost?"
"A white un," said George, "all bones like."
"All bones?" answered the Colonel, "why it must be a skeleton."
"I don't say that he ain't," was the answer, "but if he be, he's nigh
on seven foot high, and sitting airing of hissel in a stone bath."
"Oh, rubbish," said the Colonel. "How can a skeleton sit and air
himself? He would tumble to bits.
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