ost, in course; it _can't_ be that. Cause why? there's no
sich a thing as a ghost."

"Ain't there?" whispered Corrie, hopefully.

The hideous yell that Poopy here set up seemed to give the lie direct to
the skeptical seaman; but he went on deliberately, though with a glazed
eye and a deathlike pallor on his face--

"No; there ain't no ghosts,--never wos, an' never will be. All ghosts is
sciencrific dolusions, nothing more; and it's only the hignorant an'
supercilious as b'lieves in 'em. I don't; an', wots more," added Jo,
with tremendous decision, "I _won't_!"

At this point, the "sciencrific dolusion" recurred to her former idea of
alarming the settlement; and with this view began to retrace her steps,
howling as she went.

Of course, as Jo and his small companion had been guided by her
footsteps, it followed that Poopy, in retracing them, gradually drew
near to the terrified pair. The short twilight of those regions had
already deepened into the shades of night; so that the poor girl's form
was not at first visible, as she advanced from among the dark shadows of
the overhanging cliffs and the large masses of scattered rock that lay
strewn about that wild mountain pass.

Now, although John Bumpus succeeded, by an almost supernatural effort,
in calming the tumultuous agitation of his spirit, while the wild cries
of the girl were at some distance, he found himself utterly bereft of
speech when the dreadful sounds unmistakably approached him. Corrie,
too, became livid, and both were rooted to the spot in unutterable
horror; but when the ghost at length actually came into view, and (owing
to Poopy's body being dark, and her garments white) presented the
appearance of a dimly luminous creature, without head, arms, or legs,
the last spark of endurance in man and boy went out. The one gave a
roar, the other a shriek of terror, and both turned and fled like the
wind over a stretch of country, which, in happier circumstances, they
would have crossed with caution.

Poopy helped to accelerate their flight by giving vent to a cry of fear,
and thereafter to a yell of delight, as, from her point of view, she
recognized the well-known outline of Corrie's figure clearly defined
against the sky. She ran after them in frantic haste; but she might as
well have chased a couple of wildcats. Either terror is gifted with
better wings than hope, or males are better runners than females.
Perhaps both propositions are true; but certain