Aunt Martha in a weird
makeup came out of her room screaming, "What is it? What is it?"
followed by Uncle Peter and his trusty bow and arrow.
I began to pray. It was all over. A rosewood casket for Bunch.
Me for the Morgue.
Just as I was ready to rush down to investigate, Tacks came
bounding up the stairs, two steps at a time, clad only in his
nightie.
_Up the stairs_, mind you! The nerve of that kid!
"Gi'me the prize, sister!" he yelled; "I caught the ghost! I
caught him!"
"What do you mean?" I said, shaking him.
Tacks grinned from ear to ear. "You know they's a trap door in the
hall so's to get down in the cellar and it ain't finished yet, so
this evening I took the door up and laid heavy paper on it so's if
the ghost walked on it he'd go through and he did, and I get the
prize, don't I, sister?"
I rushed down to the scene of the explosion, followed by my excited
household.
Leaning over the yawning cellar trap door I yelled, "Who's down
there?"
"Oh! you go to hell!" came back the voice of the disgusted Bunch,
whereupon Aunt Martha almost fainted, while Uncle Peter loaded his
bow and arrow and prepared to sell his life dearly.
Great Scott! what a situation! The man who owned the house nursing
his bruises in the muddy cellar while the bunch of interlopers
above him clamored for his life.
While I puzzled my dizzy think-factory for a way out of the dilemma
there came a terrific knock at the door and Tacks promptly opened
it.
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