THE CHRISTMAS GHOST

Te Awamutu Courier, Volume 53, Issue 3846, 16 December 1936, Page 21 (Supplement)

THE CHRISTMAS GHOST

= A TRUE STORY OF A WEST COAST NIGHT

It was Christinas night on the West Coast. Not that Christmas night did not occur at the same time in other places, but you needed to go to the West Coast to see the festival carried out in real style. Everything was carried out, even the revellers—at the finish. Doolan’s pub was filled to overflowing with sports; it was the day before Skirmisher won the cup; and the pace l had been fast and furious, as befitted the occasion and the place. The wheezing old clock on the bar parlour mantelpiece pointed to 11.45 p.m. Or, to be exact, it pointed to 11. 4b. No clocks discriminate between a.m. and p.m., but you may take my word for it it was p.m. Doolan had escorted fassisted would have been more appropriate) the swell horseowners to their rooms and was at the time making “shake-downs” for the noisy “small men,” trainers, jockeys and general “hahgers-on.” Casey refused to take, a bed on the floor, and clamoured for a room “like those other toffs.” “There isn’t a room left,” snapped Doolan, “unless vou like to sleep in No. 13.” “That’ll do me,” hiccoughed Casey, “I’m not suner-er-stichous. I’m not frightened of ghosts.” “But there’s a real ghost in No. 13,” said Doolan, crossing himself, “it was in that room that Tim Molloy cut his throat twenty years ago, and his ghost com*? back regularly every Christmas night.” “Well, I'm not afraid of Tim Molloy or Tim Molloy’s ghost,” replied Casey. “I’ll take the risk, but I’m not going to sleep on the floor.” Others in the party tried to dissuade Casey, but the Hibernian was determined, and, armed with a bottle of the best Scotch and revolver loaded in al] chambers, he made his way clumsily un the narrow stairway, striking matches, burning his fingers, and cursing loudly all the time. Having arrived safely on the landinv, he proceeded to wander in and out of each room which was not locked, inquiring of the occupants, “Is this No. 13? Is this where the ghost hangs out?” Casey was bundled out half-a-dozen times before he struck the right one, No. 13, and this one he had very much to himself. He struck seven or eight matches in quick succession but failed to find a candle. Then, falling over a chair and coming a thud on the carpatless floor, he saved the bottle by a miracle, and only fired off two chambers of his revolver. Immediately thera was a hullabaloo, and cries of “The ghost” rang out on all sides. “Molloy never shot himself,” shouted one of the regular boarders, “he used a razor, and made an awful gurgling noise.” “Go to sleep! Hang the ghost!” called another drowsily. By this dime Doolan had mounted the stairs and was outside No. 13, but he was looking terrified, and did not venture to enter. The door opened

and Casey crawled out on all fours. “See tho ghost?” said Doolan. “No,” roared Casey, “and I didn’t see the blanky candle either.” “Oh is that all you want?” and Doolan secured a candlestick from a small table at the top of the stairs. Casey, now lit up, both inside and out, reentered the room, banging the door so loudly that several lodgers imagined that the ghost had really appeared. Casey surveyed the room, and voted it “all right” though a more careful observer would have noticed that the place was not only dismal looking, but was indescribably dusty, pointing to the fact that no one had occupied the chamber for a very long time. A small pan© of glass was missing from the window, causing the blind to flutter eeirily. The paper sagged down from one half of the ceiling, and flapped as the gusts of wind blew under the eaves. Casey’s Dutch courage carried him through where the hearts of sober men would have failed. He took a sup at the bottle; placed the- revolver under his pillow: extinguished the light, and turned over and went to sleep. Two hours later, Casey awakened feeling very dry. Securing the Scotch, he took another pull, and endeavoured to gather his scattered senses. He was in bed, or rather on top of a bed; but where ? The room seeimed strange. A pale,, sickly moon east a dim funeral light on the poor furnishings of the room. The blind flapped fitfully, and the sagging ceiling paper made a queer swishing noise. It was a queer joint, anyway. Casey had recourse to the bottle. Then his elbow struck something hard. It was a revolver. The firearm caused him to scratch his head, and it suddenly dawned upon him that he was in the ghost’s room, and that he had come with the avowed intention of defying that ghost. The moon became obscured by scurrying clouds, and the gloom deepened. The booze was dying on him, and, somehow he didn’t feel quite as brave! as he did last evening. He peered into the shadows, gripping the revolver firmly. The talk of Tim Molloy’s spirit returning each Christas was all rot. Still, he wished that some other mug had taken it on himself to “lay the ghost.” An extra strong gust of wind set the weird ghostly appurtances going with full force, and a splash of moonlight threw into relief two large brown objects at the foot of the bed. Cassay’s hand shook as he fingered the trigger, and slowly raised himself on his elbow. The figures moved and separated slightly. Taking a snap shot at the one on the right, he pulled. There was a loud report, followed by a ydll, but the yell came from Casey. He had shot himself through the big toe. Immediately there was a wild commotion on all sides. Doolan, in his pyjamas, raced up the stairs, colliding with a dozen who were descending as if the pub was on fire. Casey’s screams added to the confusion. “The ghost!” they shouted, “Tim Molloy’s p’host has arrived!” Doolan hesitated on the landing. Then, grabbing a

broom, he tip-toed to No. 13, and kicked open the door. Casey was on thu floor, groaning horribly. “What happened?” chattered Doolan, “did Tim disturb you?” “Tim be blanked,” roared Casey, feeling his foot gingerly, “there ain’t no Tim Molloy; or- any ghost either— I’ve shot my blanky toe off, that’s all!” Dr Mcßrearty was quickly on the scone, and, surrounded by a now grinning crowd of sports in the bar parlour, Casey’s tan boot was removed, and the damage inspected. The bobt had a neat hole through the tip of the toe, but no damage had been done to the toe itself. Everything turned out happily, the drinks being on Casey, and Room No. |l3 has been cleaned and renovated, and is now regularly occupied as “No. 12A.” Tim Molloy’s ghost had been well and truly laid to feist.