class="spkr">Malcolm. Well, it's a capital ghost story, I admit, that is, as a story, but I for one can't swallow it.

Hirst. I don't know, it is not nearly so improbable as some I have heard. Of course it's an old idea that spirits like to get into the company of human beings. A man told me once, that he travelled down by the Great Western, with a ghost as fellow passenger, and hadn't the slightest suspicion of it, until the inspector came for tickets. My friend said, the way that ghost tried to keep up appearances, by feeling in all its pockets, and even looking on the floor for its ticket, was quite touching. Ultimately it gave it up, and with a loud groan vanished through the ventilator.

(Somers, Malcolm and Leek laugh heartily.)

Beldon. Oh, I say come now, that'll do.

Penfold (seriously). Personally I don't think it's a subject for jesting. I have never seen an apparition myself, but I have known people who have, and I consider that they form a very interesting link between us and the after life. There's a ghost story connected with this house, you know.

Omnes. Eh! Oh? Really!

Malcolm (rising and going to mantelpiece, takes up his glass of toddy). Well, I have used this house for some years now. I travel for Blennet and Burgess—wool—and come here regularly three times a year, and I've never heard of it. (Sits down again on his chair, holding glass in his hand.)

Leek. And I've been here pretty often too, though I have only been in practice here for a couple of years, and I have never heard it mentioned, and I must say I don't believe in anything of the sort. In my opinion ghosts are the invention of weak-minded idiots.

Penfold. Weak-minded idiots or not, there is a ghost story connected with this house, but it dates a long time back.

(George, the waiter, enters D. L. with tray and serviette.)

Oh, here's George, he'll bear me out. You've heard of Jerry Bundler, George?

George (C.). Well, I've just 'eard odds and ends, sir, but I never put much count to 'em. There was one chap 'ere, who was under me when fust I come, he said he seed it, and the Guv'nor sacked him there and then. (Goes to table by window, puts tray down, takes up glass and wipes it slowly.)

(Men laugh.)

Penfold. Well, my father was a native of this town, and he knew the story well. He was a truthful man and a steady churchgoer. But I have heard him declare that once in his life he saw the ghost of Jerry Bundler in this house; let me see, George, you don't remember my old dad, do you?

(George puts down glasses over table.)

George. No, sir. I come here forty years ago next Easter, but I fancy he was before my time.

Penfold. Yes, though not by long. He died when I was twenty, and I shall be sixty-two next month, but that's neither here nor there.

(George goes up to table C. tidying up and listening.)

Leek. Who was this Jerry Bundler?

Penfold. A London thief, pickpocket, highwayman—anything he could turn his dishonest hand to, and he was run to earth in this house some eighty years ago.

(George puts glass down and stands listening.)

He took his last supper in this room.

(Penfold leans forward. Beldon looks round to L. nervously.)

That night soon after he had gone to bed, a couple of Bow Street runners, the predecessors of our present detective force turned up here. They had followed him from London, but had lost scent a bit, so didn't arrive till late. A word to the landlord, whose description of the stranger who had retired to rest, pointed to the fact that he was the man they were after, of course enlisted his aid and that of the male servants and stable hands. The officers crept quietly up to Jerry's bedroom and tried the door, it wouldn't budge. It was of heavy oak and bolted from within.

(Omnes lean forward, showing interest.)

Leaving his comrade and a couple of grooms to guard the bedroom door, the other officer went into the yard, and, procuring a short ladder, by this means reached the window of the room in which Jerry was sleeping. The Inn servants and stable hands saw him get on to the sill and try to open the window. Suddenly there was a crash of glass, and with a cry, he fell in a heap on to the stones at their feet. Then in the moonlight, they saw the face of the highwayman peering over the sill.

(Omnes move uneasily.)

They sent for the blacksmith, and with his sledge-hammer he battered in the strong oak panels, and the first thing that met their eyes was the body of Jerry Bundler dangling from the top of the four-post bed by his own handkerchief.

(Omnes sit back, draw their breath, and are generally uneasy. Slight pause.)

Somers. I say, which bedroom was it? (Earnestly).

Penfold. That I can't tell you, but the story goes that Jerry still haunts this house, and my father used to declare positively that the last time he slept here, the ghost of Jerry Bundler lowered itself from the top of his four-post bed and tried to strangle him.

Beldon (jumps up, gets behind his chair, twists chair round; nervously). O, I say, that'll do. I wish you'd thought to ask your father which bedroom it was.

Penfold. What for?

Beldon. Well, I should take jolly good care not to sleep in it, that's all. (Goes to back.)

(Penfold rising, goes to fire, and knocks out his pipe, Leek gets by arm-chair.)

Penfold. There's nothing to fear. I don't believe for a moment that ghosts could really hurt one. (George lights candle at table.) In fact, my father used to say that it was only the unpleasantness of the thing that upset him, and that, for all practical purposes, Jerry's fingers might have been made of cotton wool for all the harm they could do.

(George hands candle, gets to door and holds it open.)

Beldon. That's all very fine, a ghost story is a ghost story, but when a gentleman tells a tale of a ghost that haunts the house in which one is going to sleep, I call it most ungentlemanly.

(Beldon places his chair to L. of table R. Penfold goes up to C. Leek sits in arm chair. Beldon goes to fireplace.)

Penfold. Pooh! Nonsense. (At table up C.).