J. S. Le Fanus Ghostly Tales, Volume 4 | Page 6

of late been oftener
tipsy than was consistent with his thorough reformation, and feared the
allurements of the half dozen "publics" which he had at that time to
pass on his way to the other end of the town.
They were still open, and exhaled a delicious reek of whiskey, as Bob
glided wistfully by them; but he stuck his hands in his pockets and
looked the other way, whistling resolutely, and filling his mind with the
image of the curate and anticipations of his coming fee. Thus he steered
his morality safely through these rocks of offence, and reached the
curate's lodging in safety.
He had, however, an unexpected sick call to attend, and was not at
home, so that Bob Martin had to sit in the hall and amuse himself with
the devil's tattoo until his return. This, unfortunately, was very long
delayed, and it must have been fully twelve o'clock when Bob Martin
set out upon his homeward way. By this time the storm had gathered to
a pitchy darkness, the bellowing thunder was heard among the rocks
and hollows of the Dublin mountains, and the pale, blue lightning
shone upon the staring fronts of the houses.
By this time, too, every door was closed; but as Bob trudged homeward,
his eye mechanically sought the public-house which had once belonged
to Phil Slaney. A faint light was making its way through the shutters
and the glass panes over the doorway, which made a sort of dull, foggy
halo about the front of the house.
As Bob's eyes had become accustomed to the obscurity by this time,
the light in question was quite sufficient to enable him to see a man in a
sort of loose riding-coat seated upon a bench which, at that time, was
fixed under the window of the house. He wore his hat very much over
his eyes, and was smoking a long pipe. The outline of a glass and a
quart bottle were also dimly traceable beside him; and a large horse
saddled, but faintly discernible, was patiently awaiting his master's

leisure.
There was something odd, no doubt, in the appearance of a traveller
refreshing himself at such an hour in the open street; but the sexton
accounted for it easily by supposing that, on the closing of the house
for the night, he had taken what remained of his refection to the place
where he was now discussing it al fresco.
At another time Bob might have saluted the stranger as he passed with
a friendly "good night"; but, somehow, he was out of humour and in no
genial mood, and was about passing without any courtesy of the sort,
when the stranger, without taking the pipe from his mouth, raised the
bottle, and with it beckoned him familiarly, while, with a sort of lurch
of the head and shoulders, and at the same time shifting his seat to the
end of the bench, he pantomimically invited him to share his seat and
his cheer. There was a divine fragrance of whiskey about the spot, and
Bob half relented; but he remembered his promise just as he began to
waver, and said:
"No, I thank you, sir, I can't stop to-night."
The stranger beckoned with vehement welcome, and pointed to the
vacant space on the seat beside him.
"I thank you for your polite offer," said Bob, "but it's what I'm too late
as it is, and haven't time to spare, so I wish you a good night."
The traveller jingled the glass against the neck of the bottle, as if to
intimate that he might at least swallow a dram without losing time. Bob
was mentally quite of the same opinion; but, though his mouth watered,
he remembered his promise, and shaking his head with incorruptible
resolution, walked on.
The stranger, pipe in mouth, rose from his bench, the bottle in one hand,
and the glass in the other, and followed at the sexton's heels, his dusky
horse keeping close in his wake.
There was something suspicious and unaccountable in this importunity.
Bob quickened his pace, but the stranger followed close. The sexton
began to feel queer, and turned about. His pursuer was behind, and still
inviting him with impatient gestures to taste his liquor.
"I told you before," said Bob, who was both angry and frightened, "that
I would not taste it, and that's enough. I don't want to have anything to
say to you or your bottle; and in God's name," he added, more
vehemently, observing that he was approaching still closer, "fall back

and don't be tormenting me this way."
These words, as it seemed, incensed the stranger, for he shook the
bottle with violent menace at Bob Martin; but, notwithstanding this
gesture of defiance, he suffered the distance between