rvice to you," the Awful Thing replied, smiling at me so yellowly that I almost wished the author of the _Blue-Button of Cowardice_ could have seen it.
"It's very good of you," I put in.
"Not at all," replied the Thing; "you are the only man I know who doesn't think it necessary to prevaricate about ghosts every time he gets an order for a Christmas story. There have been more lies told about us than about any other class of things in existence, and we are getting a trifle tired of it. We may have lost our corporeal existence, but some of our sensitiveness still remains."
"Well," said I, rising and lighting the gas-logs--for I was on the very verge of congealment--"I am sure I am pleased if you like my stories."
"Oh, as for that, I don't think much of them," said the Awful Thing, with a purple display of candor which amused me, although I cannot say that I relished it; "but you never lie about us. You are not at all interesting, but you are truthful, and we spooks hate libellers. Just because one