Chapter 4 - Page 2

"somebody" who does all the damage in the world, the windows had
been carefully nailed down above, and the lower sashes could only
be raised in the mildest weather, for the men lay just below. I
had suggested a summary smashing of a few panes here and there,
when frequent appeals to headquarters had proved unavailing, and
daily orders to lazy attendants had come to nothing. No one
seconded the motion, however, and the nails were far beyond my
reach; for, though belonging to the sisterhood of "ministering
angels," I had no wings, and might as well have asked for Jacob's
ladder, as a pair of steps, in that charitable chaos.

One of the harmless ghosts who bore me company during the haunted
hours, was Dan, the watchman, whom I regarded with a certain awe;
for, though so much together, I never fairly saw his face, and,
but for his legs, should never have recognized him, as we seldom
met by day. These legs were remarkable, as was his whole figure,
for his body was short, rotund, and done up in a big jacket, and
muffler; his beard hid the lower part of his face, his hat-brim
the upper; and all I ever discovered was a pair of sleepy eyes,
and a very mild voice. But the legs!--very long, very thin, very
crooked and feeble, looking like grey sausages in their tight
coverings, without a ray of pegtopishness about them, and
finished off with a pair of expansive, green cloth shoes, very
like Chinese junks, with the sails down. This figure, gliding
noiselessly about the dimly lighted rooms, was strongly
suggestive of the spirit of a beer barrel mounted on cork-screws,
haunting the old hotel in search of its lost mates, emptied and
staved in long ago.

Another goblin who frequently appeared to me, was the attendant
of the pathetic room, who, being a faithful soul, was often up to
tend two or three men, weak and wandering as babies, after the
fever had gone. The amiable creature beguiled the watches of the
night by brewing jorums of a fearful beverage, which he called
coffee, and insisted on sharing with me; coming in with a great
bowl of something like mud soup, scalding hot, guiltless of
cream, rich in an all-pervading flavor of molasses, scorch and
tin pot. Such an amount of good will and neighborly kindness also
went into the mess, that I never could find the heart to refuse,
but always received it with thanks, sipped it with hypocritical
relish while he remained, and whipped it into the slop-jar the
instant he departed, thereby gratifying him, securing one rousing
laugh in the doziest hour of the night, and no one was the worse
for the transaction but the pigs. Whether they were "cut off
untimely in their sins," or not, I carefully abstained from
inquiring.

It was