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 it rose fully free from the earth.

A shadowy figure quite near him appeared entirely ignorant of his
presence, and as soon as his cerements were free from the mold of the
grave from which he had come, gave an audible sniff, shook himself so
that his bones rattled like a bag of dry oyster shells, and as he did so
said:

"Zounds and pea blossoms! What wouldn't I give for a good pipe full of
tobacco! I've a notion to stay dead."

Saying this the loose-jointed ghost threw one leg over his tombstone and
began to drum on it with his heels, while he folded his bony arms with
supreme disgust.

The newspaper man, now all alert to the situation, hurriedly opened the
paper of tobacco and filling his pipe, which was of that warm, rich hue
of brown so dear to the heart of the smoker as the result of many hours
of solitude, and much copy, he lighted it and sent out a couple of
whiffs to pave the way for his voice which followed the puffs of smoke.
The ghost still sat drumming with his heels on the stone and watched the
operation.

"If I-may I-offer you my pipe?" stammered the young man.

"You may, indeed, and be sure of the thanks of a man who has not smoked
for so long that he has almost forgotten how it tastes."

The ghost sighed so heavily that the rags fluttered around as he drew
himself up with dignity, at the same time covering his breast bone with
the morsels of his shroud. He received the pipe most graciously and
enjoyed it with infinite gusto, though, to be sure, the smoke seemed to
ooze out afterwards from all over his angular anatomy.

The little heart of fire glowed brightly in the bowl of the pipe, and as
the rich cloud of smoke gradually enveloped the ghost, it told more
eloquently than words could have done of his enjoyment. The newspaper
man stood ready to fill it up again, and it suddenly occurred to him
that possibly the contents of the small flask in his pocket might prove
acceptable, so he made bold to offer it, saying:

"I have a little old whiskey, if you ever indulge-"

"Indulge! Dear sir, you are a Christian! I have not had a snifter for-as
many years as I have been dead. Tears enough to float a seventy-four gun
ship have bedewed my grave, but nobody has ever thought of pouring out a
little good rum. Ah, there is a flavor about rum so rich and fine that
it makes one think of all the molasses in the world boiled down into one
bottle. Here's to your health; your very good health, the health of your
wife, your children, your mother, and hoping that your bottle may never
be empty!"

With every fresh sentiment the ghost lifted the bottle to his mouth, and
at last handed that and the pipe back with evident reluctance. The pipe
was now cold.

"Would you care to smoke again?" asked the young man.

"I would indeed, my good sir. I cannot tell you the comfort you have
given me on this occasion, an occasion only too trying to the most
hardened ghost."

"May I ask the nature of it?"

"You may; you may. I owe you that much. But, before I do, let me move
around so that I cannot see that fellow's headstone. It makes me sick.
Just see that epitaph. I knew the chap, and all about him. The epitaph
tells how brave he was in the Mexican war where he fell a hero. Instead
of dying like a hero, he ran like a whitehead-he did-and caught his foot
in a vine and fell into a cactus bush and was kicked to death by a
Roman-nosed mule with one loose shoe. It was that loose shoe that did
the business."

Here the ghost fell to puffing again with a vigor born of vexation and
disgust. The newspaper man now saw that there were many other forms
quite as unsubstantial as this one walking around slowly. He noticed
also that they kicked vigorously at some of the headstones as they
passed, and that they all appeared to have and show a special hatred for
some dark objects scattered among the graves. The young man could not
resist the desire to know why the other ghosts seemed to be so angry.
The ghost who was still smoking with evident pleasure, said:

"Oh, the usual thing."

"And what is that, if I may ask?"

"Oh, just as if it is not enough to be dead and not have your passport
yet! Here come a lot of fools and stick flowers over your grave. It is
true that we do not have so much to complain of in this respect as some
of the newer cemeteries do. The most of us have been here for so long
that we have no relatives to come here and leave them, and the public
thinks it is quite honor enough to be buried here. Other cemeteries may
be forgotten or removed, but this one is as solid as the rock of
Gibraltar. It is honeycombed about as much too. And there are flowers
enough growing in their proper places without sticking more around. We
don't care so much for sentiment as people seem to think we do. We have
learned the value of it. We have grown practical."

The newspaper man held out his hand for the pipe to fill it again,
gently asking the ghost to tell him what this special occasion might be,
adding that he would be very grateful for anything that the ghost might
be willing to impart, as probably he would never have a better chance to
learn.

The other ghosts sauntered along, looking enviously at this one as he
sat there smoking vehemently and reflecting. It actually appeared that
the ghosts could see and that they looked at him, though in the very
nature of things they ought not to be able to see without eyes. Their
efforts to appear entirely unconcerned while the favored one sat smoking
were funny, or would have been so under any other circumstances.

The young journalist had mentally christened this as the Sociable Ghost,
and he waited silently, observing him while he did so, and pondered on
the delight of the smoker as he in time became conscious of the glances
of envy and overwhelming smoke-hunger of the other ghosts. They
evidently would have done anything for just one whiff at that pipe, but
they saw that there was nothing to hope for, and that they were
confronting another bloated monopoly. But they all ranged themselves in
line with apparent carelessness, so that the night wind should waft the
smoke toward them. They sniffed the smoke eagerly and looked as though
they would like to annihilate the smoker.

Apparently unnoticing and unconcerned, the sociable ghost continued to
smoke as though reflecting on what he should say to this young man, and
possibly it occurred to him that if he told all there was to say too
soon, the young man might go away, and there was still quite a lot of
tobacco in the paper, and some more of the whiskey which he had left in
the flask for good manners. He could not jeopardize what might be his
last chance.

"There is a sort of sameness here," said the ghost irrelevantly, with a
comprehensive wave of the hand, "particularly in the architecture." And
then he suddenly kicked at a bone which had attracted his attention,
though how it had escaped the attention of Floyd, whose whole life is
spent in trying to keep the place immaculately clean is a mystery. The
young man t

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