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Updated: May 1, 2025
A labouring friend of mine was telling me the other day of the wonderful disappearance of a packman and a "jewelrer," as he called him. For very many years nothing was heard of them, but about twenty years ago some "skellingtons" were dug up on the exact spot where the inn stood, so their disappearance was accounted for.
We have had a nightly accompaniment of a much larger procession, though, calling themselves 'Skellingtons, otherwise the 'Skeletons, an army of low women and roughs; who live vulture lives on this poor, soiled, grimy, forgotten world. Thank God, the ground of evil-doers is in danger, and they know it! "Behind my church, in a dark, unwholesome alley called.
Skellingtons, he said, didn't grow on trees spontaneous, an' he hed an official interes' in human relics out o' place. So he kem, the tree is 'twixt hyar an' my house thar on the rise, an', folks! the tale war plain.
The old mountaineer gazed retrospectively at it as he resumed: "Waal, sirs, that town-man had never consorted with sech ez skellingtons. He lit out straight! He made tracks! He never stopped till he reached Colbury, an' thar he told his tale. Then the sheriff he tuk a hand in the game.
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