At the Sign of the Jack O'Lantern

It was certainly a queer house. Even through the blinding storm they could distinguish its eccentric outlines as they alighted from the stage. Dorothy laughed happily, heedless of the fact that her husband's umbrella was dripping down her neck. "It's a dear old place," she cried; "I love it already!" For an instant a flash of lightning turned the peculiar windows into sheets of flame, then all was dark again. Harlan's answer was drowned by a crash of thunder and the turning of the heavy wheels on the gravelled road. "Don't stop," shouted the driver; "I'll come up to-morrer for the money. Good luck to you-an' the Jack-o'-Lantern!" "What did he mean?" asked Dorothy, shaking out her wet skirts, when they were safely inside the door. "Who's got a Jack-o'-Lantern?" "You can search me," answered Harlan, concisely, fumbling for a match. "I suppose we've got it. Anyhow, we'll have a look at this sepulchral mansion presently." His deep voice echoed and re-echoed through the empty rooms, and Dorothy laughed; a little hysterically this time. Match after match sputtered and failed. "Couldn't have got much wetter if I'd been in swimming," he grumbled. "Here goes the last one."