“Now old-man Fugle’s off our m-m-minds,” says Mark Tidd, next morning, “and things is goin’ p-perty good here, we got time to give to Jason Barnes.”

“Fine!” says I, and Tallow and Binney agreed with me as enthusiastic as could be.

“What’s the scheme?” says Tallow.

“Dunno yet. Got to git one up. Anyhow, I don’t want to do much till Silas Doolittle gits that d-dowel-machinery to goin’. If he was left alone he wouldn’t finish up on it till a year from Christmas.”

“Yes,” says I, “and what about that other turned stock that’s pilin’ up in the warehouse? Them drumsticks and tenpins. And perty soon we’ll have a stack of bowls, too. Hadn’t we better git to sellin’ them?”

“I been workin’ on ’em,” says Mark. “Got a lot of l-letters out now. Ought to hear somethin’ right away. If I don’t we’ll have to git out and h-hustle.”

Well, he stood over Silas Doolittle like a hungry cat watching a mouse-hole until Silas got finished up with the dowel-machinery and it was running. When the little pegs began to come through Mark was satisfied.

“Now for Jason,” says he.

“Jason’s one of them spirit fellers,” says I.

“How’s that?” says Binney.

“Believes spooks comes monkeyin’ around a feller,” says I. “Goes to them mediums and gits to talk to his grandfather’s aunt’s sister’s poodle-dog that died the year of Valley Forge,” says I. “And he hears rappin’s on the wall, and pencils writes on slates when nobody is around, and sich cunnin’ things.”

“What’s a medium?” says Tallow.

“Why,” says I, “you know what a medium is! Anybody knows. I wouldn’t let on I didn’t know what one was. Folks would think I didn’t know much.”

“Oh,” says he, “is that so? Well, if you’re so doggone wise, what is a medium? Jest tell me that. Jest say right out what one is, and what it does, and what wages it gits for doin’ it, if it’s so easy.”

“Well,” says I, “when you have roast beef, how do you like it?”

“Cooked,” says Binney.

“Well done or rare or what?” says I.

“Medium,” says Tallow.

“There,” says I. “You see.”

“I don’t see nothin’,” says he. “What’s roast beef got to do with spirits?”

“It hain’t the meat,” says I, “but the word. You said ‘medium,’ didn’t you? Well, that’s what we was talkin’ about.”

“Huh!” says he, and sort of scowled. “Medium. That means half-cooked, don’t it? It means the meat hain’t raw and hain’t done. Kind of red-like,” says he.

“Well,” says I, “that’s what a medium is, hain’t it?”

“What? Red?”

“Some of ’em is red,” says I. “There’s Injun spirits. Most mediums I ever heard of is on speakin’ terms with a Injun spirit named Laughin’ Water.”

“What kind of a way is it to call ‘red’ ‘medium’? How would I look sayin’ the Brownses’ house was medium when I meant it was red? Folks would think I was crazy.”

“It don’t mean red, exactly,” says I.

“Well, then, what does it mean?”

“It sort of means ‘not quite.’ See? Not quite raw and not quite cooked.”

“Middlin’?” says Tallow.

“Why, yes,” says I, “that’s about it! Standin’ in the middle.”

“Middle of what?” says Binney.

“Middle of a crowd of spirits, of course,” says I.

“Well, why in tunket couldn’t you have said so right off without so much palaver?”

“I had to explain it to you gradual,” says I, “or you wouldn’t ever have catched the idea.”

“Did Jason ever see one of them spirits?” says Tallow.

“Claims he’s seen dozens,” says I.

“Was he scairt?”

“Accordin’ to his tell he got consid’able chummy with ’em,” says I. “He was braggin’ up to the grocery how they come and pulled his ears and stuck their fingers down his back and called him by his first name.”

“If I was a spirit,” says Binney, “I’ll bet I could git more fun than pullin’ Jason’s ears.”

“Well,” says Mark Tidd, “what you f-f-fellers say if we all turn spirits and do quite a heap more ’n jest p-pull his ears? I’ll bet Jason hain’t so brash as he lets on with spirits kickin’ around. I’ll b-bet if he was to meet up with a crowd of ’em unexpected-like, he’d have a conniption fit and fall in the m-middle of it.”

“We kin try him and see,” says I. “How’ll we work it?”

“I’ll f-figger it out,” says Mark, “and to-night we’ll give Jason a t-treat.”

“Treat him medium,” says Tallow.

“Won’t be n-nothin’ medium about this,” says Mark. “It’ll be done brown.”

“We’ll dress up in sheets,” says Binney.

“We won’t, n-neither,” says Mark. “Sheets has gone out of style for ghosts. It’s what you can’t see but kin feel and hear that scares you m-most. Jest lemme alone awhile and I’ll git up a scheme for Jason.”

Well, we let him alone, because there wasn’t anything else to do. When he was getting up a scheme it wasn’t any use to ask him questions or pester him. He never would tell you a word till he made up his mind to, and the more you bothered him the longer it would be before you found out. When he was good and ready you’d get to know.

Mark told us to meet him right after supper, which we did. He had a fish-pole in his hand all covered with black, and a package in his other hand that he didn’t mention.

“Thought we was goin’ after Jason,” says I. “Why didn’t you say you was goin’ bullhead-fishin’?”

“The b-bullhead we’re after,” says he, “has got two laigs and he answers to the name of Barnes.”

“All right,” says I, “but why the fish-pole?”

“You’ll see,” says he.

“Why’s it all wrapped in black?”

“So’s he won’t see,” says Mark, and that is all we could get out of him.

We mogged along slow, waiting for it to get real good and dark, and then we headed straight for Jason’s house. Mostly in the evening you could find him setting on a bench overlooking the river, having a enjoyable time smoking his pipe and swatting mosquitoes. He always sat there, because if he went down to the grocery with the other loafers somebody might borrow a pipeful of tobacco off of him, and it seemed like Jason just couldn’t bear to part with nothing for nothing. He was that close-fisted he made the barber spread a paper around his chair when he got a hair-cut, so he could save the hair that was cut off. Yes, sir. And once he took two plank to the mill to be planed, and fetched along a bag to carry home the shavings. Said they was too good kindling to waste.

We got to his house and sneaked around back, but Jason wasn’t there. We hid in the lilac-bushes and waited maybe twenty minutes. Perty soon the back door opened and out come Jason on tiptoes, acting like an Injun that was creeping up on a helpless settlement of white folks. He took so much pains to act stealthy that anybody could tell he was up to something. When he went past where we were hiding we saw he had an ax in one hand and a crowbar in the other. He mogged right along past us and begun to scramble down the bank toward our mill.

“Huh!” says Mark. “Wonder what the old coot’s up to?”

“Hain’t no idee,” says I, “but he’s headin’ toward the mill.”

“Shouldn’t be s’prised,” says Mark, “if it was a l-l-lucky thing we happened around jest when we did. Wait a m-minute and we’ll foller in Jason’s footsteps.”

We waited, and in a minute Mark got up and started right after Jason. When we got to the edge of the bank we could see a dark blob that moved along through our log-yard, and we knew it was him, so down we went, taking all the pains we knew how not to make any sound.

When we got to the bottom Jason was out of sight, but we knew he was there somewheres, and Mark said he wasn’t up to any good. I could have told that myself, because nobody goes sneaking onto other folks’s property at night with an ax and a crowbar to do him a favor. Not that I’ve heard of, anyhow.

We went across the race and up to the mill, but we didn’t see Jason or hear a sound.

“L-listen!” says Mark.

We all stood as still as could be and listened. Before long we heard a sort of scraping sound over to our right. It sounded like it was pretty close, but kind of muffled.

“Plunk,” says Mark, “you crawl over that way and s-see what you kin s-see.”

So I got down on all-fours and crept along till I got to the gate that let the water through to the mill-wheel. It was shut, because we always shut it at night. I hadn’t seen or heard anything yet. I kept on till I was right on the edge of the pit where the water-wheel was and craned my neck over. I couldn’t see anything for a spell, but sure as shooting I could hear somebody moving around, and in a second a match flared up and I could see Jason sticking out his neck and looking at the wheel. There was a little water down there that seeped through the gate—not much, but a little. It came around his ankles. Now I could hear him breathing hard and kind of muttering to himself.

“Dum’ hard way to earn money,” says he, soft and low. “But it’s good money and don’t take long. Hope it don’t fetch on the rheumatiz, sloshin’ around in this water.” Then, after a while he says, sort of shaky, “I never see sich a dark hole.” He lighted another match and looked around. Then he picked up his ax and crowbar from where he had rested them against the wall and got nearer to the water-wheel.

I didn’t wait for anything else, but went hustling back to Mark.

“He’s down in the wheel-pit,” says I, “and he’s got his ax and crowbar. Now whatever you calc’late he’s doin’ there?”

Mark was looking pretty mad. “He’s doin’ a little chore for that man Wiggamore,” says he. “He’s goin’ to see to it the m-m-mill don’t run too good. What would h-happen, Plunk, if our water-wheel was to be smashed?”

“Why,” says I, “we’d be smashed, too!”

“You bet,” says he. “Well,” he says, in a minute, “I dunno ’s I ever heard of a more d-d-disagreeable place to meet a ghost than down in a wheel-pit.”

With that he undid the package in his hand and showed it to us. It was a rubber glove, kind of whitish-yellow color, and it was stuffed full of something.

“Feel,” says Mark.

I took it in my hand and dropped it in a second. You never took hold of anything so cold and clammy-feeling and so dead. That’s how it felt—dead.

“What’s the idee?” says I, sort of shivering.

“That,” says Mark, “is the g-g-ghost.”

“Ginger!” says I.

He took that hand and fastened it to the end of his fish-pole, and then motioned for us to come along. We all got over to the edge of the pit without making a sound, and stuck our heads over. Sure enough, there we could see Jason—just barely see him in the pitch dark, and we could hear him mumbling to himself, pretty nervous and uneasy.

“Wisht it was light,” says he. “This hain’t no sort of a place for a man to be at night. Nobody knows what’s prowlin’ around. And a feller can’t do no sort of a workman-like job when he can’t see. But I calc’late I kin put that wheel out of business, jest the same. Anyhow, I kin smash off most of the buckets.”

He lighted another match and reached for his ax. Just then Mark let out a sound that ’most made me jump into the pit. It was the dolefulest, sufferingest, miserablest moan you ever heard. The hair around the back of my neck curled right up tight, and I hain’t ever been able to git the kink quite out of it. Scairt! Whew! Say, I’ve been scairt a couple of times, but I hain’t never seen anything that was a patch on what I felt then. I was just going to scramble up and scoot when Mark grabbed me.

“Set still,” he whispered. “That was me.”

“Oh!” says I. “Well, don’t do it ag’in, or you won’t have me in the audience. I calc’late I heard about all I kin digest.”

“You’ll hear worse,” says he.

We listened. Jason wasn’t making a sound. Jest standing still and letting his knees rattle together, I calc’late. Perty soon he spoke.

“Who’s that?” he says, faint-like.

Mark he let out another one of them moans, but this was a better one than the first. It fair made your blood curdle up into hunks.

“Ooo-oo!” says Jason, just like that.

Mark stuck out his fish-pole slow and cautious with that clammy hand on the end of it, and then, all of a sudden, there was a thin little ray of light that shot out and touched that hand so’s you could see it plain, but you couldn’t see anything else. It jest looked like a hand a-floating in the air, sort of pale and fleshy and horrible—and it moved straight toward Jason. Mark he let loose another moan.

“Jason Barnes!” says Mark, in a hollow, awful kind of voice. “Jason Barnes!”

Now the hand was close to Jason and he was a-crowding away from it. His eyes was sticking out of his head about a foot and his mouth was open wide enough to stick that hand right into it. All he could see was that hand and the ghost light that come with it. The light was an electric flash of Mark’s. The hand came closer and closer and touched Jason right on the cheek. Well, sir, you never heard such a screech as he let out.

“Go away!” says he. “Don’t touch me! What be you ha’ntin’ me fer? I hain’t never done nothin’ to you. Ooo-oo!”

“Kneel, Jason Barnes!” says Mark, and down plopped Jason right in that chilly water. “Kneel and confess.”

And all that time that clammy hand was a-fumbling over Jason’s face. If I’d been him I calc’late I’d have keeled over and give up the ghost right there, but maybe, being one of them spirit fellers, Jason was sort of familiar with ghosts and wasn’t as scairt as I would have been. But he was scairt enough. Come to think it over, I don’t see how a body could get much more scairt than he was.

“Jason Barnes,” says Mark again, “what—are—you—doing—there?”

“Oh, Spirit, whoever you be,” says Jason, his teeth clattering like clappers, “I hain’t doin’ nothin’. I was walkin’ in my sleep. I hain’t a-doin’ nothin’.”

“Jason Barnes—confess,” says the voice.

“I—Oh, Mr. Ghost—I come to bust the water-wheel.”

“Why?”

“’Tain’t my fault. I didn’t know any ghosts was int’rested in this mill.... I was hired.”

“Who hired you?”

“Feller named Wiggamore.”

“This is my mill.... This is my water-wheel,” says the voice.

“I didn’t know.... Honest, I didn’t know. Oh, lemme git out, Mr. Spirit! I won’t never come ag’in. I won’t never disturb your property no more.”

“How—much—were—you—paid?” says the voice.

“Ten dollars,” says Jason.

“Put—it—in—my—hand,” says the voice.

Jason he reached in his pocket and laid a bill in the hand on the end of the fish-pole, and the hand pulled it back to Mark, who put it in his pocket. Then the hand went back again.

“I’ve—been—watching—you,” said the voice.

“I hain’t done nothin’.... I didn’t know. Oh, lemme go! I won’t never do nothin’ like this again.”

“This—mill—is—mine,” says Mark.

“I wouldn’t tetch it for a million dollars,” says Jason.

“If—you—do,” says the voice, “I—shall—come—for—you.”

“Jest lemme go and you won’t never have no complaint ag’in. How was I to know you owned this mill?”

“Come out,” says the voice.

We backed away and crouched down. Jason he come spilling out of that hole without his ax or his crowbar, and stood on the top, shaking like he had a double dose of the ague. Mark reached out with the hand and laid it against his cheek.

“I—shall—watch—you, Jason—Barnes,” says the voice. “Day—and—night—I—shall—watch—you.”

“You won’t have no reason. Honest, you won’t.... From now on I’m a-goin’ to lead a upright life. You won’t have no more trouble with me. I promise solemn.”

“If—I—have—to—come—to—you—again—BEWARE.”

“You won’t. You never’ll have to come nigh me. I don’t never want to see you ag’in.”

“Then—go—home—and—repent,” says Mark. “Go!”

Jason went. You never see no such going as he done right then and there. You would have thought he was the prize runner of the county out after the championship of the world. He went so fast he got where he was going a minute before he started. That’s the way it seemed. I don’t believe anybody ever ran so fast before, and I don’t believe anybody ever will again. And he just naturally jumped up that bluff. It was the highest jump on record, about seventy or eighty feet or so. I don’t know where he stopped, but I do know he never looked back.

When he was out of sight Mark sat down to laugh, and we all laughed some, but we was so mad we couldn’t laugh very much.

“Fine way to d-d-do business,” says Mark. “Hirin’ men to come in and smash your machinery!”

“What you goin’ to do with the ten dollars?” says I.

“Come along and s-s-see,” says he.

We went into the mill and to the office. There Mark took a piece of paper and wrote a letter to Amassa P. Wiggamore and this was the letter:

And he had us all sign our names to it.