One day I observed Erchie going off the pavement rather than walk under a ladder.

“And are you superstitious too?” I asked him, surprised at this unsuspected trait in a character so generally sensible.

“I don’t care whither ye ca’t supresteetion or no,” he replied, “but walkin’ under lethers is a gey chancy thing; and there’s mony a chancy thing, and I’m neither that young nor that weel aff that I can afford to be takin’ ony risks.”

“Dear me!” I said; “I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that you believed in ghosts.”

“Do I no’?” he answered. “And guid reason for’t! Did I no’ yince see yin? It was the time I had the rheumatic fever, when we were stayin’ in Garnethill. I was jist gettin’ better, and sittin’ up a wee while in the evenin’ to air the bed, and Jinnet was oot for a message. The nicht was wild and wet, and the win’ was daudin’ awa’ at the window like onything, and I was feelin’ gey eerie, and wearyin’ for the wife to come back. I was listenin’ for her fit on the stair, when the ootside door opens, and in a second there was a chap at the kitchen door.

“‘Come in if your feet’s clean,’ says I, pretty snappy. ‘Seein’ ye’ve made sae free wi’ the ae door ye needna mak’ ony ceremony wi’ this ane.’ I heard the hinges screechin’, but naebody cam’ in, and I looks roon’ frae where I was sittin’ wi’ a blanket roond me at the fire, and there was the ghost keekin’ in. He was a wee nyaf o’ a thing, wi’ a Paisley whisker, a face no bigger than a Geneva watch, a nickerbocker suit on, Rab Roy tartan tops to his gowfin’ stockings, and pot-bellied to the bargain. I kent fine he was a ghost at the first gae-aff.

“‘It’s you,’ says I. ‘Come in and gies yer crack till Jinnet comes. Losh, it’s no’ a nicht for stravaigin’.’

“He cam’ glidin’ in withoot makin’ ony soond at a’, and sat doon on a chair.

“‘Ye’re no’ feared,’ says he, tryin’ to gnash his teeth, and makin’ a puir job o’t, for they were maistly artifeecial.

“‘Feared?’ says I. ‘No’ me! I never did onybody ony hairm that wad mak’ it worth ony ghost’s while to meddle wi’ me. A flet fit but a warm hert.’

“‘We’ll see aboot that,’ says he, as cocky as onything. ‘I had a fine job findin’ oot where ye were. Fancy me gaun awa’ doon to Millport on a nicht like this to haunt ye, and findin’ that ye had flitted up here last term.’ And he begood to gnash his teeth again.

“‘Millport!’ says I. ‘Man! I was never near the place, and I’ve lived in this hoose for seventeen year, and brocht up a faimily in’t.’

“I never seen a ghost mair vexed than he was when I tellt him that. His jaw fell; he was nearly greetin’.

“‘Whit’s yer name?’ he asked.

“‘Erchie MacPherson, and I’m no’ ashamed o’t. Its no’ in ony grocers’ nor tylers’ books that I ken o’, and if I ever murdered ony weans or onything o’ that sort, it must hae been when I was sleepin’. I doot, my man, ye’re up the wrang close.’

“The ghost begood to swear. Oh my! such swearin’. I never listened to the bate o’t. There was fancy words in’t I never heard in a’ my life, and I’ve kent a wheen o’ cairters.

“‘That’s jist like them,’ says he. ‘They tellt me Millport; and efter I couldna find the man I was wantin’ at Millport, I was tellt it was here, No. 16 Buccleuch Street. Fancy me bungin’ awa’ through the air on a nicht like this! My nicker-bockers is fair stickin’ to my knees wi’ wet.’

“‘Peter,’ says I (of course I didna ken his richt name, but I thocht I wad be nice wi’ the chap see-in’ he had made such a mistake), ‘Peter,’ said I, ‘ye’re needin’ yer specs on. This is no’ No. 16, it’s number 18, and I think the man ye maun be lookin’ for is Jeckson, that canvasses for the sewin’-machines. He came here last term frae aboot Millport. If he’s done ony hairm to ony-body in his past life—murdered a wife, and buried her under the hearth-stane or ony daft-like thing o’ that sort,—I’m no’ wantin’ to hear onything aboot it, for he’s a guid enough neebour, has twa bonny wee weans, comes hame regular to his tea, and gangs to the kirk wi’ his wife. He’s been teetotal ever since he came here. Gie the chap a chance!’

“‘Jeckson!’ said the ghost, and whips oot a wee book. ‘That’s the very man!’ said he. ‘Man! is’t no’ aggravatin’? Here’s me skooshin’ up and doon the coast wi’ my thin flannels on lookin’ for him, and him toastin’ his taes at a fire in Buccleuch Street! Jist you wait. It shows ye the wye the books in oor place is kept. If the office was richt up-to-date, Jeckson wadna be flitted ten meenutes when his new address wad be marked doon. No wonder the Americans is batin’ us! Weel, it’s no’ my faut if I’m up the wrang close, and I’m no’ gaun to start the job the nicht. I’m far ower cauld.’

“There was an empty gless and a teaspoon on the dresser, for Jinnet had been giein’ me a drap toddy afore she gaed oot. The ghost ‘sat doon on a chair and looked at the gless.

“‘Could ye save a life?’ said he.

“‘Whit wad be the use o’ giein’ it to you, Peter?’ I asked him; ‘ye havena ony inside, seein’ ye’re a ghost.’

“Have I no’?’ says he. ‘Jist try me.’ So I pointed to the press, and he took oot the decanter as smert’s ye like and helped himsel’.

“He turned oot a rale nice chap in spite o’ his tred, and he gave me a’ the oots and ins o’t. ‘I’ve nae luck’ he said. ‘It’s my first job at the hauntin’, and I’ve made a kind o’ botch o’t, though it’s no’ my faut. I’m a probationer; jist on my trial, like yin o’ thae U.F. ministers. Maybe ye think it’s easy gettin’ a haunter’s job; but I’m tellin’ ye it’s no’ that easy, and when ye get it, it’s wark that tak’s it oot o’ ye. There’s mair gangs in for the job there than for the Ceevil Service here, and the jobs go to compeetition. “Ye hae’ to pass an examination, and ye hae nae chance o’ gettin’ yin if ye divna mak? mair nor ninety per cent o’ points. Mind ye, there’s mair than jist plain ghost-wark! It used to be, in the auld days, that a haunter wad be sent to dae onything,—to rattle chains, or gie ye the clammy hand, or be a blood-curdler.

Nooadays there’s half a dizzen different kinds o’ haunters. I’m a blood-curdler mysel’,’ and he gied a skreich that nearly broke a’ the delf on the dresser.

‘Nane o’ that!’ says I, no’ very weel pleased. ‘Ye’ll hae the neebours doon on us. Forbye, there’s naething patent aboot that sort o’ skreich. Duffy the coalman could dae better himsel’. That’s no’ the wye a dacent ghost should cairry on in ony hoose whaur he’s gettin’ a dram.’

“‘Excuse me,’ he says; ‘it’s the dram that’s ta’en my heid. Ye see, I’m no’ used to’t. It’s mony a day since I had yin.’

“‘Are they that strict yonder?’ I asked.

“‘Strict’s no’ the word for’t! If a blood-curdler on probation was kent to gang to his work wi’ the smell o’ drink aff him, he wad lose his job:’ and he helped himsel’ to anither dram.

“‘Weel, ye’re no’ blate ony wye,’ says I.

“‘Blate! Catch me,’ says he. ‘I wadna need to be blate at this tred, I’m tellin’ ye. Jist you think o’ the kind o’ customers we hae to dale wi’! They wad sooner see a tax-collector comin’ into their hooses than yin o’ us chaps. There’s some hooses ye hae to gang to work in where it’s easy. I ken a ghost that’s been fifteen years on the same job, and gettin’ fat on’t. He has the name o’ bein’ the best white-sheet ghost in the Depairt-men’, and he’s stationed in an auld castle up aboot the Hielan’s, a job he got because he had the Gaelic. He made it sae hot for the folk, walkin’ aboot their bedrooms at a’ ‘oors o’ the nicht, that naebody’ll stay in the place but himsel’ and an auld deaf and dumb housekeeper. There’s naething for him to dae, so he can lie in his bed a’ nicht and no’ bother himsel’ aboot onything. It’s a very different thing wi’ anither chap I ken—a chain-clanker in England. He has to drag ten yairds o’ heavy chain up and doon stairs every nicht; and it’s no easy job, I’m tellin’ ye, wi’ the folk the hoose belang to pappin’ things and shootin’ at whaur they think the soond comes frae. Oh ay! there’s a great run on the best jobs. My ain ambeetion is to be in the clammy-hand brench o’ the business in some quate wee place at the coast. I hae my eye on a likely thing at Rothesay. Of course the clammy hand’s no’ a very nice occupation for the winter, but this is a hoose that’s shut up in the winter, and I wad only hae to work it in the fine summer nichts.’

“‘Hoo dae ye dae the clammy hand, Peter?’ I asked him, and he jist winked.

“‘If I was tellin’ ye that,’ says he, ‘ye wad be as wise as mysel’. Never you mind, MacPherson; ask me nae questions and I’ll tell ye nae lees. Weel, as I was sayin’, I aye had a notion o’ a quate job at the coast. I couldna stand Gleska; there’s, such a rush aboot it, and sae mony stairs to sclim, and pianos aye playin’ next door. And the accent’s awfu’! Gie me a nice wee country hoose whaur somebody hanged himsel’, wi’ roses on the wa’, and dandelions in the front plot. But there’s plenty o’ us lookin’ efter jobs o’ that sort,—far ower mony; and it’s generally them wi’ influence that gets them at the hinder-end.’

“‘That’s whit everybody says aboot the situations here, Peter,’ says I. ‘If they’re nae use at their tred they talk a lot aboot influence. I’m thinkin’ ye wad soon get a job at the coast if ye were fit for’t.’

“He was the shortest-tempered ghost ever I seen. I had nae sooner said that than he gied anither skreich, and disappeared in a blue lowe wi’ an awfu’ smell o’ brimstone.

“‘Come oot o’ that!’ I says to him; ‘I can see the taps o’ yer gowfin’ stockings;’ and at that he gied a kind o’ shamed lauch and was sittin’ in the chair again, helpin’ himsel’ to anither dram.

“‘I’ll tell ye whit I’ll dae wi’ ye,’ said he. ‘I’ll no’ mind aboot Jeckson at a’, but I’ll hing aboot your hoose for a week or a fortnight, and they’ll never ken at the office. I canna think to gang into Jeckson’s hoose if he’s a teetotaler. Teetotalers is aye that—that—that teetotal. I wad never get sittin’ doon in Jeckson’s to a jovial gless like this.’

“‘Ye’re far ower jovial for me,’ says I. ‘See’s that decanter,’ and I took it frae him. ‘I’m awfu’ prood to see ye, but ye better be slidin’ afore her ladyship the wife comes in, or she’ll put the hems on ye. She canna stand ghosts.’

“‘Michty!’ said he, ‘have ye a wife?’

“‘The nicest wee wife in Gleska,’ said I. ‘And I wish to goodness she was hame, for I’m awfu’ tired.’

“‘Then I’m no’ playin’,’ said the ghost. ‘I’ll awa’ roon’ and gie Jeckson a cry afore he gangs to his bed.’

“He grabbed the decanter and emptied it into the tumbler, gied ae gulp, and anither gnash to his teeth, and went awa’ withoot sae much as ‘thenk ye.’

“Jinnet’s step was on the stair. Fine I kent it! Man, that’s the smertest wee wumman!

“‘There’s nae livin’ in this hoose wi’ ghosts,’ says I to her when she cam’ in, and she had some grapes for me.

“‘Is there no’, Erchie?’ she said, lookin’ at me, ‘my ain puir auld man!’

“‘Look at that decanter,’ says I; ‘the rascal emptied it.’

“‘Hoots! the decanter’s a’ richt,’ says she, takin’t frae the press; and as shair’s onything, there wasna a drap’ oot o’t!

“And she put me to my bed there and then.”