The Ghost in the Red Shirt

The proper way to begin this story would be to assure the reader, first of all, that I have never believed in ghosts; that is the way ghost-stories usually begin, I think. Also, I should say that what I am about to relate is perfectly true—but I won’t begin it like that. As a matter of fact, I don’t care much whether you believe me or not, and I always did believe in ghosts—at least, I always hoped they were truer than Santa Claus, and that some day I should see one.

Aunt Jane—but I don’t want to begin with Aunt Jane either: she always did begin everything in my life, ever since I can remember, and she sha’n’t begin this story. I don’t mean her even to know I wrote it—she’d only say I’m crazy, and I’m not.

This is the way it all happened, and, mind, I don’t care whether you believe it or not. It happened, and your belief or disbelief won’t alter that one important fact. And he was the dearest old ghost—but wait till I start at the beginning, as I should have done before.

We had gone across the lake that evening in the little sail-boat, the New Woman. Jack named it, you might know; he said she was full of whims and it took a man to hold her nose in the wind—Jack’s awfully sarcastic.

There were just six of us—Aunt Jane and Mabel, Cousin Jack, Professor Goldburn, and Clifford Wilton. Clifford and I weren’t on very friendly terms. We had been engaged, though Aunt Jane didn’t suspect it. But it was all over, and my sweet little ruby ring was lying somewhere off Weir Point, where Clifford threw it one day—but this is a ghost-story.

Nothing happened during the sail except that my hat blew away and Mabel hinted that it wasn’t an accident—that I liked to show off my hair. I said I didn’t show off any hair but what I might justly call my own, and, of course, that made Mabel mad—angry, I mean. Aunt Jane scolded me, as usual: it’s easy to tell which niece has the money.

We landed to visit a cave in the cliff, and Mabel and Clifford flirted outrageously. It wasn’t a bit interesting—I mean the cave. The flirting didn’t worry me: I was particularly nice to Professor Goldburn—so nice that Aunt Jane called me her dear child twice, and the Professor came near offering me his heart and hand. Jack saved me: he called us all to the boat just as the Professor got fairly warmed to his subject. Of course, I ran as soon as Jack called, leaving the Professor to come nipping along behind—I hate fat men, anyway.

A storm was muttering up from the horizon, and the oily, ugly clouds were almost over our heads before we pushed off, on account of Mabel and Clifford loitering along the cliff path and acting that silly!

The lake was smooth as glass and ink black, and the look of it made me shiver, with four miles of it between us and home.

Jack raised the sail, but it hung limp, so there was nothing for it but to row. Jack and Clifford went to work, while I steered the boat. Clifford spoke once to me: we ignored each other, as a rule.

“Better keep her close in. We’ll try to round this point and run into the cove before she strikes.”

“If we don’t,” remarked Jack cheerfully, “she’ll flop us; and, oh mister, she won’t do a thing to us!”

I rather thought “she” would do several things to us, but I didn’t stop to argue the point—there wasn’t time. I don’t know just how it came about, but Jack was right—she “flopped” us.

We weren’t far from shore, so the upset wasn’t very serious. The water was so shallow we could easily wade ashore, though Mabel called for help, and, of course, it was Clifford who rescued her—from water no deeper than our bathtub! It is incredible, the foolishness of that girl!