It was somewhere up the river. With more particularity I must not locate it. I heard of it casually in the City and slunk off on a borrowed motor to see it the following Saturday afternoon while Millicent was out shopping. We had always liked the idea of a bungalow, and from the day that the two young women beneath us began to learn the violin I had resolved to let our flat for something more than the coronation.

      It was all that a bungalow should be. The little steps to the river, the trim flower garden, the design and eaves of the building itself, the drapery of drooping willow boughs which begirt it, all charmed the eye. More than this, it stood aloof and quite by itself, and on its right flank a thick plantation gave harbourage for singing birds.

      The lock-keeper had the key and the letting of it, so to him I went straightway.

      He was standing by his lock, a veritable Captain Kettle to look upon. "The bungalow, sir? Yes, if you like, sir. Now then, let the launches go first if you please. Three parties seen it to-day. I doubt if you're not too late, sir. Last tenants only left yesterday. Jim" (this to his son — there were seven or eight of them, by the way), "show this gentleman the bungalow."

      Half an hour later I had put my money down and was a three months tenant. Then I went to tea at the little lock-house. Old Mrs. Captain Kettle made a great impression on me. She said benignly that she'd "do for us as she'd done for every other tenant. Then in a confidential aside she told me how specially blessed the lock-house poultry were and how that finer vegetables could be got nowhere than from the lock-house garden. In an engaging way she was singing the praises and usefulness of her countless stalwart sons when Kettle himself appeared.

      He also was engaging — most engaging. "That little copse on the side of the bungalow, sir, did you notice it?" "Yes," said I, "and very charming I thought it was." Then he lowered his voice. "Them trees are so thick," said he, "you'd never guess what's behind. An old falling church, sir; yes, and a churchyard. Queer, isn't it?" Then in an insinuating whisper, "I shouldn't tell your missis, sir. You see it's this way; ladies is so whimsical, and they do say, but of course it's child's talk, that something walks there sometimes."

      I laughed. He nodded encouragingly and laughed too. I felt that I was beginning to like the man. Besides I had succeeded in getting him to take whole chunks off the rent. It had been a case of "cash down" and three months at the price of two. "Tell me about the ghost," I said as I got into a hammock. The orchard was full of them; I asked what they were for. He grinned. "The house ain't big enough," he said, looking towards a cluster of his sons. "They sleep out."

      "And when it rains?" I asked laughing.

      "They grow like sunflowers."

      I went home light-heartedly and broke the news to Millicent, employing all the artfulness which is acquired in two years of married life. She had just come in from her shopping, so I counted on her having some twinges of conscience which might help me. Quite casually I mentioned the bungalow. With her awakening interest I became less callous, and in a few minutes gave her quite a pretty word-picture of it.

      "Oh, George," she said, "couldn't we take it?"

      "I thought of the same thing," I said indifferently, "but you see there were already three sets of people after it."

      Then she jumped up. "You men are impossible!" she cried. "I should have snapped it up on the spot."

      "What" (this in amazement) "without asking me?"

      "Yes, indeed I should."

      "Then, dear, that is just what I did do."

*       *       *       *      *

      We went into possession the following Saturday, arriving in time for tea. The party consisted of Millicent and myself and Bridget, Millicent's old nurse who ruled us all and particularly exercised sway over Arabella, a youthful domestic whom we also took with us. Arabella is a bundle of tender emotions. She feigned the most touching timidity when one of the lock-keeper's sons punted us over. Afterwards she spent her odd moments in striking attitudes and in murmuring, "It must be 'eaven 'ow be-eautiful!" whereupon Bridget got sarcastic and nigh to blasphemy. The old woman most strongly disapproved of the whole affair, and when a little later Arabella, who had mysteriously disappeared, was found devotedly washing the little wooden steps which dipped to the water there was nearly an affray. However, things settled down quickly and I took Millicent out in the punt.

      Sunday was a glorious day, real bungalow weather, and Monday morning gave such brilliant promise of sunshine and pleasure on our quiet backwaters that it was nothing less than martyrdom to go to the City. The evening brought a chill, sobbing wind and later rain. By the time dinner was over, a real bungalow dinner, the drizzle had given place to a steady river-side downpour. I set myself to explain to Millicent that this sort of thing happened even in bungalow life. I felt in a measure blameworthy, and as I could not help thinking of the cosy flat I hastened to point out that the next day would, as a matter of course, be fine. So Millicent sang to me, and I sang to Millicent. Later we heard Arabella's voice in the kitchen. She was singing to Bridget, and then a low growl, and we knew that Bridget had said something, and then Arabella sang no more.

      About ten o'clock I looked out with studied indifference — that is the real bungalow way — and then we chatted for a few minutes till —

      "George, listen! Did you hear that?" Millicent had risen hastily. "I really think I heard a scream. Oh, George, can it be that someone is in the water?"

      "Nonsense, darling; it's your fancy. Who would be out to-night?"

      I opened the door. I felt that the occasion demanded it, but I did it reluctantly. In a moment I had remembered the thick copse, the ruined church, and the "something that walks sometimes."

      The cold breeze swept in, the curtains rustled, and the lamp smoked — a real bungalow smoke. I was in the act of shutting the door when there came from somewhere not very far away a long, piteous cry. I call it a cry, but it was like nothing I had ever heard before. It began on a low note and rose and rose and then died away; quite the most awesome thing of its kind I had ever heard. Millicent was clutching my arm and I could feel her trembling. From the kitchen came evidences of Arabella and hysteria, and they swelled in a tumult above the very storm when Bridget came through the door, Bridget haggard and grey, mumbling and crossing herself.

      "I will go out and see," I said desperately.

      "Leaving us here alone," sobbed Millicent reproachfully.

      But Bridget settled the matter. She closed the door and locked it. I gathered from her murmurings that in her opinion a priest was the correct solution.

      That same minute Arabella surpassed herself. With a wild whoop and a headlong rush she came through the doorway, and throwing herself on my wife shouted in the interludes of her maniacal laughter, "Missus, we'll go together." After assuaging this devoted creature, a matter of much difficulty, I deposited her on the sofa, and Bridget with a "By your leave" planted herself down beside her. Bridget was rigid. Millicent and I stood facing one another.

      In a little while comparative quiet was restored. Arabella was moaning and sniffling, and it was to this accompaniment that the next ghostly falsetto wail was heard.

      That one I could not stand without doing something. It came from a point so very near that I made a rush for the window, and before Millicent could interpret into action Bridget's cry, "Don't look on it, don't look on it!" I had torn aside the blind. Some twenty yards or so away there was a grey figure standing with arm outstretched. I gazed on it for an instant; meanwhile Arabella positively roared. Then remembering practical jokes beyond number I made for the door and flung it open. The thing was still there; the desire to end the choking fear was hot within me. I looked and looked — awed — enthralled perhaps. I am confident that I was on the very point of darting out towards it when, horrible to see, it came towards me. My wife dragged me in. It is only fair to myself to lay emphasis on that, and as the door was being bolted again there came a more terrible shriek from the spectre than before.

      It was a positive relief to find that Arabella had fainted.

      We shall leave to-day," said my wife at breakfast. I agreed. A jaded, colourless party we went over in the punt together and left the key with the lock-keeper. I said we would send for our things during the next day or so, and I added significantly that he might rest assured that he would hear from me.

      At lunch-time I went to see my solicitor, Linklater. I had designs on the three months rent which I had paid so readily. Furthermore, having an eye to damages from my unknown landlord, I had sent Millicent to a first-rate hotel. Linklater listened to me to the end and then screamed with laughter. Naturally I was nettled. He replied, "I have had some experience of ghosts, also in one case of bungalow ghosts." Then he went to his telephone and rang up Harridge. Harridge is a mutual friend — a prosaic person, an Imperial Yeoman of huge proportions. Also he is a stockbroker and has a motor. In a few minutes it was arranged that we should dine at Harridge's club — Harridge being, as I have said, a stockbroker — and go down on his motor that night and explore.

      Had it not been for the dinner I think we should not have started. It was a terribly wet night — a real bungalow wet night.

      Linklater was in command, and it was by his direction that we went a detour which brought us at last to the far side of the copse which held the ruined church. Then we ran the motor into a siding and began our march through the wet. Harridge led the way gingerly, swearing under his breath all the while. The grass was very wet — a real bungalow wetness. Half-way through the copse Harridge disappeared. Only his swear words guided us to the rescue. Someone had considerately sunk a barrel into the ground for some reason or other. Harridge was in that barrel. We told him to speak softly and pulled him out. His feet had got mixed up with something and he pulled that out with him. It was a winding sheet. Linklater has no bump of reverence. He called it something else. Also he chuckled. "I can see daylight," said he. This was so obviously a lie that I felt that no answer was needed.

      The most uncomfortable part of the whole affair was the getting through a hole in the last hedge, but at last we stood in the same field with the bungalow.

      Lighted up by George said I.

      "Hush," said Linklater as he strode forward. Then I noticed that he was carrying the shroud.

      He stopped about ten yards from the place to ask how many doors there were. "Back and front," said I. Harridge was sent to the back. We two stole up to the front and boldly opened it.

      A flood of light poured out and Linklater laughed. I peered over his shoulder.

      "Do you know them he asked.

      "Yes," said I with a rising gorge. "One, two, four, six, the lock-keeper's sons." Then I cleared my throat.

      There they were right enough staring round at us. They had been lying in various attitudes in our dining-room. As they had twisted themselves round to face their disturbers the blankets had slipped off them. Six bare sets of shoulders gleamed in the lamp-light.

      "I guessed as much said Linklater as he dived into his pocket and produced a dog-whip, which he slipped into my hand.

      "So you are the brave fellows who play the ghost and terrify women," said I sternly.

      "When it's wet we've got to sleep somewhere," said one of them sullenly.

      "At other people's expense, too," I retorted in rising wrath.

      "I s'pose rent days come at last," quoth the eldest with just the suspicion of a grin on his handsome face.

      "It has indeed," said I resolutely as I stepped forward, "and there'll be no remission either." There wasn't!