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“It ain’t thet ghost ag’in?” growled Robinson, from the depths of his arm-chair; “thet ghost’s about played.”

“Wot ghost?” asked a new-comer.

“Why, ole Mammy’s ghost, that every feller about yer sees when he’s half full and out late o’ nights.”

“Where?”

“Where? Why, where should a ghost be? Meanderin’ round her grave on the hill, yander, in course.”

“It’s suthin bigger nor thet, pard,” said Dick confidently; “no ghost kin rake down the pot ag’in the keerds I’ve got here. This ain’t no bluff!”

“Well, go on!” said a dozen excited voices.

Dick paused a moment, diffidently, with the hesitation of an artistic raconteur.

“Well,” he said, with affected deliberation, “let’s see! It’s nigh onto an hour ago ez I was down thar at the variety show. When the curtain was down betwixt the ax, I looks round fer Daddy. No Daddy thar! I goes out and asks some o’ the boys. ‘Daddy WAS there a minnit ago,’ they say; ‘must hev gone home.’ Bein’ kinder responsible for the old man, I hangs around, and goes out in the hall and sees a passage leadin’ behind the scenes. Now the queer thing about this, boys, ez that suthin in my bones tells me the old man is THAR. I pushes in, and, sure as a gun, I hears his voice. Kinder pathetic, kinder pleadin’, kinder–“

“Love-makin’!” broke in the impatient Robinson.

“You’ve hit it, pard,–you’ve rung the bell every time! But she says, ‘wants thet money down, or I’ll–‘ and here I couldn’t get to hear the rest. And then he kinder coaxes, and she says, sorter sassy, but listenin’ all the time,–woman like, ye know, Eve and the sarpint!–and she says, ‘I’ll see to-morrow.’ And he says, ‘You won’t blow on me?’ and I gets excited and peeps in, and may I be teetotally durned ef I didn’t see–“

“What?” yelled the crowd.

“Why, DADDY ON HIS KNEES TO THAT THERE FANCY DANCER, Grace Somerset! Now, if Mammy’s ghost is meanderin’ round, why, et’s about time she left the cemetery and put in an appearance in Jackson’s Hall. Thet’s all!”

“Look yar, boys,” said Robinson, rising, “I don’t know ez it’s the square thing to spile Daddy’s fun. I don’t object to it, provided she ain’t takin’ in the old man, and givin’ him dead away. But ez we’re his guardeens, I propose that we go down thar and see the lady, and find out ef her intentions is honorable. If she means marry, and the old man persists, why, I reckon we kin give the young couple a send-off thet won’t disgrace this yer camp! Hey, boys?”

It is unnecessary to say that the proposition was received with acclamation, and that the crowd at once departed on their discreet mission. But the result was never known, for the next morning brought a shock to Rough-and-Ready before which all other interest paled to nothingness.

The grave of Mammy Downey was found violated and despoiled; the coffin opened, and half filled with the papers and accounts of the robbed benevolent associations; but the body of Mammy was gone! Nor, on examination, did it appear that the sacred and ancient form of that female had ever reposed in its recesses!

Daddy Downey was not to be found, nor is it necessary to say that the ingenuous Grace Somerset was also missing.

For three days the reason of Rough-and-Ready trembled in the balance. No work was done in the ditches, in the flume, nor in the mills. Groups of men stood by the grave of the lamented relict of Daddy Downey, as open-mouthed and vacant as that sepulchre. Never since the great earthquake of ’52 had Rough-and-Ready been so stirred to its deepest foundations.

On the third day the sheriff of Calaveras–a quiet, gentle, thoughtful man–arrived in town, and passed from one to the other of excited groups, dropping here and there detached but concise and practical information.

“Yes, gentlemen, you are right, Mrs. Downey is not dead, because there wasn’t any Mrs. Downey! Her part was played by George F. Fenwick, of Sydney,–a ‘ticket-of-leave-man,’ who was, they say, a good actor. Downey? Oh, yes Downey was Jem Flanigan, who, in ’52, used to run the variety troupe in Australia, where Miss Somerset made her debut. Stand back a little, boys. Steady! ‘The money?’ Oh, yes, they’ve got away with that, sure! How are ye, Joe? Why, you’re looking well and hearty! I rather expected ye court week. How’s things your way?”

“Then they were only play-actors, Joe Hall?” broke in a dozen voices.

“I reckon!” returned the sheriff, coolly.

“And for a matter o’ five blank years,” said Whisky Dick, sadly, “they played this camp!”