Old fires and Profitable Ghosts. Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

Confusion. Cardinal Mazarini (who was the chief Contriver of these Entertainments, to divert the King from more serious Thoughts) stood close by the young Monarch, with the Scheme of the Ballet in his Hand. Knowing therefore that this Dance was to consist but of twelve Antiques, and taking notice that there were actually thirteen, he at first imputed it to some Mistake. But, afterwards, when he perceived the Confusion of the Dancers, he made a more narrow Enquiry into the Cause of this Disorder. To be brief, they convinced the Cardinal that it could be no Error of theirs, by a kind of Demonstration, in that they had but twelve Antique Dresses of that sort, which were made on purpose for this particular Ballet. That which made it seem the greater Mystery was, that when they came behind the Scenes to uncase, and examine the Matter, they found but twelve Antiques, whereas on the Stage there were thirteen. …"

      "Let him say it. Let him say he didn't mean it, the rotten Irishman!"

      Cooney flung a leg wearily over the side of his hammock, jerked himself out, and shuffled across to the sick man's berth.

      "Av coorse I didn' mane it. It just took me, ye see, lyin' up yondher and huggin' me thoughts in this—wilderness. I swear to ye, George: and ye'll just wet your throat to show there's no bad blood, and ​that ye belave me." He took up a pannikin from the floor beside the bunk, pulled a hot iron from the fire, and stirred the frozen drink. The invalid turned his shoulder pettishly. "I didn't mane it," Cooney repeated. He set down the pannikin, and shuffled wearily back to his hammock.

      The Gaffer blew a long cloud and stared at the fire; at the smoke mounting and the grey ash dropping; at David Faed dealing the cards and licking his thumb between each. Long Ede shifted from one cramped elbow to another and pushed his Bible nearer the blaze, murmuring, "Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil our vines."

      "Full hand," the Snipe announced.

      "Ay." David Faed rolled the quid in his cheek. The cards were so thumbed and tattered that by the backs of them each player guessed pretty shrewdly what the other held. Yet they went on playing night after night; the Snipe shrilly blessing or cursing his luck, the Scotsman phlegmatic as a bolster.

      "Play away, man. What ails ye?" he asked.

      The Snipe had dropped both hands to his thighs and sat up, stiff and listening.

      "Whist! Outside the door. … "

      All listened. "I hear nothing," said David, after ten seconds.

      "Hush, man—listen! There, again … "

      They heard now. Cooney slipped down from his hammock, stole to the door and listened, crouching, ​with his ear close to the jamb. The sound resembled breathing—or so he thought for a moment. Then it seemed rather as if some creature were softly feeling about the door—fumbling its coating of ice and frozen snow.

      Cooney listened. They all listened. Usually, as soon as they stirred from the scorching circle of the fire, their breath came from them in clouds. It trickled from them now in thin wisps of vapour. They could almost hear the soft grey ash dropping on the hearth.

      A log spluttered. Then the invalid's voice clattered in—

      "It's the bears—the bears! They've come after Bill, and next it'll be my turn. I warned you—I told you he wasn't deep enough. O Lord, have mercy … mercy … !" He pattered off into a prayer, his voice and teeth chattering.

      "Hush!" commanded the Gaffer gently; and Lashman choked on a sob.

      "It ain't bears," Cooney reported, still with his ear to the door. "Leastways … we've had bears before. The foxes, maybe … let me listen."

      Long Ede murmured: "Take us the foxes, the little foxes … "

      "I believe you're right," the Gaffer announced cheerfully. "A bear would sniff louder—though there's no telling. The snow was falling an hour back, and I dessay 'tis pretty thick outside. If 'tis a bear, we don't want him fooling on the roof, and I ​misdoubt the drift by the north corner is pretty tall by this time. Is he there still?"

      "I felt something then … through the chink, here … like a warm breath. It's gone now. Come here, Snipe, and listen."

      "'Breath,' eh? Did it smell like bear?"

      "I don't know … I didn't smell nothing, to notice. Here, put your head down, close."

      The Snipe bent his head. And at that moment the door shook gently. All stared; and saw the latch move up, up … and falteringly descend on the staple. They heard the click of it.

      The door was secured within by two stout bars. Against these there had been no pressure. The men waited in a silence that ached. But the latch was not lifted again.

      The Snipe, kneeling, looked up at Cooney. Cooney shivered and looked at David Faed. Long Ede, with his back to the fire, softly shook his feet free of the rugs. His eyes searched for the Gaffer's face. But the old man had drawn back into the gloom of his bunk, and the lamplight shone only on a grey fringe of beard. He saw Long Ede's look, though, and answered it quietly as ever.

      "Take a brace of guns aloft, and fetch us a look round. Wait, if there's a chance of a shot. The trap works. I tried it this afternoon with the small chisel."

      Long Ede lit his pipe, tied down the ear-pieces of his cap, lifted a light ladder off its staples, and set it ​against a roof-beam: then, with the guns under his arm, quietly mounted. His head and shoulders wavered and grew vague to sight in the smoke-wreaths. "Heard anything more?" he asked. "Nothing since," answered the Snipe. With his shoulder Long Ede pushed up the trap. They saw his head framed in a panel of moonlight, with one frosty star above it. He was wriggling through. "Pitch him up a sleeping-bag, somebody," the Gaffer ordered, and Cooney ran with one. "Thank 'ee, mate," said Long Ede, and closed the trap.

      They heard his feet stealthily crunching the frozen stuff across the roof. He was working towards the eaves over-lapping the door. Their breath tightened. They waited for the explosion of his gun. None came. The crunching began again: it was heard down by the very edge of the eaves. It mounted to the blunt ridge overhead; then it ceased.

      "He will not have seen aught," David Faed muttered.

      "Listen, you. Listen by the door again." They talked in whispers. Nothing; there was nothing to be heard. They crept back to the fire, and stood there warming themselves, keeping their eyes on the latch. It did not move. After a while Cooney slipped off to his hammock; Faed to his bunk, alongside Lashman's. The Gaffer had picked up his book again. The Snipe laid a couple of logs on the blaze, and remained beside it, cowering, with his arms stretched out as if to embrace it. His shapeless shadow ​wavered up and down on the bunks behind him; and, across the fire, he still stared at the latch.

      Suddenly the sick man's voice quavered out—

      "Its not him they want—it's Bill! They're after Bill, out there! That was Bill trying to get in. … Why didn't yer open? It was Bill, I tell yer!"

      At the first word the Snipe had wheeled right-about-face, and stood now, pointing, and shaking like a man with ague.

      "Matey … for the love of God … "

      "I won't hush. There's something wrong here to-night. I can't sleep. It's Bill, I tell yer. See his poor hammock up there shaking … "

      Cooney tumbled out with an oath and a thud. "Hush it, you white-livered swine! Hush it, or by——" His hand went behind him to his knife-sheath.

      "Dan Cooney"—the Gaffer closed his book and leaned out—"go back to your bed."

      "I won't, Sir. Not unless——"

      "Go back."

      "Flesh and blood——"

      "Go back." And for the third time that night Cooney went back.

      The Gaffer leaned a little farther over the ledge, and addressed the sick man.

      "George, I went to Bill's grave not six hours agone. The snow on it wasn't even disturbed. Neither