either to
relate or listen to another, and the club actually retired to rest that
evening without a story.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE HAUNTED STAGE BOX.--THE TRAGEDIAN'S STORY.

The following morning was bright, clear, and frosty. At an early hour
two of our guests were to leave the "Headless Lady" by the mail for
London. These two were Captain Toughyarn and our comic friend, Mr.
Jollytoast. Each had urgent business on hand, and the other members of
the club had risen to see them off.

Breakfast had been laid for these two worthies; their companions seated
themselves at the same table, and chatted with them whilst waiting for
the stage-coach.

"Well, captain," said Mr. Oldstone, "after you return from your next
voyage, you'll visit us again and have another dream over our punch like
that last one of yours, won't you?"

"Ay, ay, messmate," replied the captain; "you may be sure of that. That
is to say, if we are all still in the land of the living. I'd come, even
if I had no other inducement than the bright eyes of our host's pretty
daughter."

"Avast there! captain," said Mr. Jollytoast. "Remember the mermaid!
Think of Lurline! Take care, lest Helen should prove even more
dangerous."

Just then the horn of the stage-coach was heard in the distance, and in
a short time the horses were at the door. Our two travellers took their
seats, after having been repeatedly invited to return, and some jovial
sallies having passed between our host and the driver over a stiff glass
of grog, the coach started, and was soon out of sight. After their two
friends had departed the rest of the club set out together for an hour's
stroll before breakfast, to enjoy the fresh morning air, walking all of
them abreast, and taking up all the carriage road.

The way was long and lonely--not a soul stirring, and the landscape as
far as they could see covered with snow; but the sky was cheerful, and
the little birds sang overhead. Our club felt exhilarated by the nipping
air, and discoursed by the way on divers subjects, until Mr. Oldstone,
whose appetite for stories was insatiable, said that he saw no reason
why Mr. Blackdeed's story that was to come next should not enliven their
walk. The proposal was seconded, and Mr. Blackdeed, finding himself
loudly called upon, began his story thus:

I must begin, then, gentlemen, by informing you that my family name is
not the one I bear at present. It is many years since I dropped that. My
fathe