open so that the handle was driven clean into
the plaster of the wall. But we didn't think
much of that at the time; for over our heads,
sailing very comfortably through the windy
stars, was the ship that had passed the
summer in landlord's field. Her portholes
and her bay-window were blazing with lights,
and there was a noise of singing and fiddling
on her decks. "He's gone," shouted landlord
above the storm, "and he's taken half the
village with him!" I could only nod in
answer, not having lungs like bellows of
leather.

I declare I would not exchange this short, crazy, enchanting fantasy
for a whole wilderness of seemly novels, proclaiming in decorous
accents the undoubted truth that there are milestones on the
Portsmouth Road.

Arthur Machen.




The Ghost-Ship

Fairfield is a little village lying near the Portsmouth Road about
half-way between London and the sea. Strangers who find it by
accident now and then, call it a pretty, old-fashioned place; we who
live in it and call it home don't find anything very pretty about it,