Books with title At the Sign of the Jack O' Lantern

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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.” By the uncertain light they found a candle and Harlan drew a long breath of relief. “It would have been pleasant, wouldn’t it?” he went on. “We could have sat on the stairs until morning, or broken our admirable necks in falling over strange furniture. The next thing is a fire. Wonder where my distinguished relative kept his wood?”

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This book was digitized and reprinted from the collections of the University of California Libraries. It was produced from digital images created through the libraries’ mass digitization efforts. The digital images were cleaned and prepared for printing through automated processes. Despite the cleaning process, occasional flaws may still be present that were part of the original work itself, or introduced during digitization. This book and hundreds of thousands of others can be found online in the HathiTrust Digital Library at www.hathitrust.org.

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.” By the uncertain light they found a candle and Harlan drew a long breath of relief. “It would have been pleasant, wouldn’t it?” he went on. “We could have sat on the stairs until morning, or broken our admirable necks in falling over strange furniture. The next thing is a fire. Wonder where my distinguished relative kept his wood?”

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This is a pre-1923 historical reproduction that was curated for quality. Quality assurance was conducted on each of these books in an attempt to remove books with imperfections introduced by the digitization process. Though we have made best efforts - the books may have occasional errors that do not impede the reading experience. We believe this work is culturally important and have elected to bring the book back into print as part of our continuing commitment to the preservation of printed works worldwide. This text refers to the Bibliobazaar edition.

It was certainly a queer house. Even through the blinding storm they could distinguish itseccentric outlines as they alighted from the stage. Dorothy laughed happily, heedless of thefact that her husband’s umbrella was dripping down her neck. “It’s a dear old place,” shecried; “I love it already!”For an instant a flash of lightning turned the peculiar windows into sheets of flame, then allwas dark again. Harlan’s answer was drowned by a crash of thunder and the turning of theheavy 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 safelyinside the door. “Who’s got a Jack-o’-Lantern?”“You can search me,” answered Harlan, concisely, fumbling for a match. “I suppose we’vegot 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; alittle hysterically this time. Match after match sputtered and failed. “Couldn’t have got muchwetter if I’d been in swimming,” he grumbled. “Here goes the last one.”By the uncertain light they found a candle and Harlan drew a long breath of relief. “It wouldhave been pleasant, wouldn’t it?” he went on. “We could have sat on the stairs untilmorning, or broken our admirable necks in falling over strange furniture. The next thing isa fire. Wonder where my distinguished relative kept his wood?”Lighting another candle, he went off on a tour of investigation, leaving Dorothy alone.She could not repress a shiver as she glanced around the gloomy room. The bare lonelinessof the place was accentuated by the depressing furniture, which belonged to the blackwalnut and haircloth period. On the marble-topped table, in the exact centre of the room,was a red plush album, flanked on one side by a hideous china vase, and on the other by abasket of wax flowers under a glass shade.

Myrtle Reed (1874-1911) was an American author, the daughter of Elizabeth Armstrong Reed and the preacher Hiram von Reed. She sometimes wrote under the pseudonym of Olive Green. Reed was born in Chicago, where she graduated from the West Division High School. In 1906 she was married to James Sydney McCullough. She died of a drug overdose in Chicago, Illinois. Amongst her books are: The Spinster Book (1901), Lavender and Old Lace (1902), The Shadow of Victory (1903), A Spinner in the Sun (1906), Flower of the Dusk (1908), Old Rose and Silver (1909), Master of the Vineyard (1910), Sonnets to a Lover (1910), A Weaver of Dreams (1911), The Myrtle Reed Yearbook (1911), The White Shield (1912), Threads of Grey and Gold (1913) and Happy Women (1913). She also published a series of cook books under the pseudonym of Olive Green, including: What to Have for Breakfast (1905), One Thousand Simple Soups (1907) and How to Cook Fish (1908).

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.” By the uncertain light they found a candle and Harlan drew a long breath of relief. “It would have been pleasant, wouldn’t it?” he went on. “We could have sat on the stairs until morning, or broken our admirable necks in falling over strange furniture. The next thing is a fire. Wonder where my distinguished relative kept his wood?”