I had to look. I couldn't help it. So
now we was both on our knees with our chins on a
fence rail and gazing -- yes, and gasping too. It was
coming down the road -- coming in the shadder of the
trees, and you couldn't see it good; not till it was
pretty close to us; then it stepped into a bright splotch
of moonlight and we sunk right down in our tracks --
it was Jake Dunlap's ghost! That was what we said
to ourselves.
We couldn't stir for a minute or two; then it was
gone We talked about it in low voices. Tom
says:
"They're mostly dim and smoky, or like they're
made out of fog, but this one wasn't."
"No," I says; "I seen the goggles and the whiskers
perfectly plain."
"Yes, and the very colors in them loud countrified
Sunday clothes -- plaid breeches, green and black --"
"Cotton velvet westcot, fire-red and yaller squares --"
"Leather straps to the bottoms of the breeches legs
and one of them hanging unbottoned --"
"Yes, and that hat --"
"What a hat for a ghost to wear!"
You see it was the first season anybody wore that
kind -- a black sitff-brim stove-pipe, very high, and
not smooth, with a round top -- just like a sugar-loaf.
"Did you notice if its hair was the same, Huck?"
"No -- seems to me I did, then again it seems to me
I didn't."
"I didn't either; but it had its bag along, I noticed
that."
"So did I. How can there be a ghost-bag, Tom?"
"Sho! I wouldn't be as ignorant as that if I was
you, Huck Finn.
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