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Jack gasped, then he sighed, after which he smiled and began to pace the hall slowly. At last he said, half aloud, “I think I’ll smoke my pipe to-night with that poor fellow, O’Donel. He must be lonely enough, and I don’t often condescend to be social.”

Taking up his pipe and tobacco-pouch, he went towards the kitchen.

Now, while his master was enduring those uncomfortable feelings in the hall, Teddy was undergoing torments in the kitchen that are past description. He had had a grandmother–with no nose to speak of, a mouth large enough for two, four teeth, and one eye–who had stuffed him in his youth with horrible stories as full as a doll is of sawdust. That old lady’s influence was now strong upon him. Every gust of wind that rumbled in the chimney sent a qualm to his heart. Every creak in the beams of his wooden kitchen startled his soul. Every accidental noise that occurred filled him with unutterable horror. The door, being clumsily made, fitted badly in all its parts, so that it shook and rattled in a perfectly heartrending manner.

Teddy resolved to cure this. He stuck bits of wood in the opening between it and the floor, besides jamming several nails in at the sides and top. Still, the latch would rattle, being complicated in construction, and not easily checked in all its parts. But Teddy was an ingenious fellow. He settled the latch by stuffing it and covering it with a mass of dough! In order further to secure things, he placed a small table against the door, and then sat down on a bench to smoke his pipe beside the door.

It was at this point in the evening that Jack resolved, as we have said, to be condescending.

As he had hitherto very seldom smoked his pipe in the kitchen, his footstep in the passage caused O’Donel’s very marrow to quake. He turned as pale as death and became rigid with terror, so that he resembled nothing but an Irish statue of very dirty and discoloured marble.

When Jack put his hand on the latch, Teddy gasped once–he was incapable of more! The vision of the poor Indian woman rose before his mental eye, and he–well, it’s of no use to attempt saying what he thought or felt!

The obstruction in the latch puzzled Jack not a little. He was surprised at its stiffness. The passage between the hall and kitchen was rather dark, so that he was somewhat nervous and impatient to open the door. It happened that he had left the door by which he had quitted the hall partially open. A gust of wind shut this with a bang that sent every drop of blood into his heart, whence it rebounded into his extremities. The impulse thus communicated to his hand was irresistible. The door was burst in; as a matter of course the table was hurled into the middle of the kitchen, where it was violently arrested by the stove. Poor Teddy O’Donel, unable to stand it any longer, toppled backwards over the bench with a hideous yell, and fell headlong into a mass of pans, kettles, and firewood, where he lay sprawling and roaring at the full power of his lungs, and keeping up an irregular discharge of such things as came to hand at the supposed ghost, who sheltered himself as he best might behind the stove.

“Hold hard, you frightened ass!” shouted Jack as a billet of wood whizzed over his head.

“Eh! what? It’s you, sur? O, musha, av I didn’t belave it was the ghost at last!”

“I tell you what, my man,” said Jack, who was a good deal nettled at his reception, “I would advise you to make sure that it is a ghost next time before you shie pots and kettles about in that way. See what a smash you have made. Why, what on earth have you been doing to the door?”