y to take his place till he gets well
again. I'm the Somebody. They tried two other men--but the Deadhouse gave
them the horrors. My respectable sister spoke for me, you know. "The
regular watchman will be well in a week," she says; "try him for a week."
And they tried me. I'm not proud, though I am a city officer. Come
along--and let me carry the bottle."

"The bottle" again! And, just as this intrusive person spoke of it,
Joseph's voice was audible below, and Joseph's footsteps gave notice that
he was ascending the kitchen stairs. In the utter bewilderment of the
moment, Jack ran out, with the one idea of escaping the terrible
possibilities of discovery in the hall. He heard the door closed behind
him--then heavy boots thumping the pavement at a quick trot. Before he
had got twenty yards from the house, the vinous breath of Schwartz puffed
over his shoulder, and the arm of the deputy-night-watchman took
possession of him again.

"Not too fast--I'm nimble on my legs for a man of my age--but not too
fast," said his new friend. "You're just the sort of little man I like.
My sister will tell you I take sudden fancies to people of your
complexion. My sister's a most respectable woman. What's your
name?--Jack? A capital name! Short, with a smack in it like the crack of
a whip. _Do_ give me the bottle!" He took it this time, without waiting
to have it given to him. "There! might drop it, you know," he said. "It's
safe in my friendly hands. Where are you going to? You don't deal, I
hope, at the public-house up that way? A word in your ear--the infernal
scoundrel waters his wine. Here's the turning where the honest publican
lives. I have the truest affection for him. I have the truest affection
for you. Would you like to see the Deadhouse, some night? It's against
the rules; but that don't matter. The cemetery overseer is a deal too
fond of his bed to turn out these cold nights and look after the
watchman. It's just the right place for me. There's nothing to do but to
drink, when you have got the liquor; and to sleep, when you haven't. The
Dead who come our way, my little friend, have one great merit. We are
supposed to help them, if they're perverse enough to come to life again
before they're buried. There they lie in our house, with one end of the
line tied to their fingers, and the other end at the spring of the
alarm-bell. And they have never rung the bell yet--never once, bless
their hearts, since the Deadhouse was built