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"That's right," he said, looking at her oddly; "he couldn't come. You see, he's sort of taken a shine to a biscuit shooter in Crogan's, over in Lazette, an' he couldn't very well break away." "A biscuit shooter!" she said, uncomprehendingly. "Sure. I reckon that back East you'd call her a waitress, or somethin'. I ain't admirin' his taste none. She ain't nowheres near as good-lookin' as you."
But they couldn' lay the ghost no more arter; an' it was a devil-ghost, which is the worstest kind; an' it stuck close to thicky lyin' man an' wouldn' leave en nohow. But at last a white witch bound the spirit an' condemned it to empty out Dosmery Pool wi' a crogan wi' a hole in it. A crogan's a limpet shell, which you mightn't knaw, Mister Jan.
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