Theskywasyellowasbrass,notyethiddenbythesmokefromthechimneystacks.Behindtheroofsofthefactorytheradiancewasespeciallybright.Thesunmustbejustrising.Ilookedatmywatch;noteighto’clock.Aquarterofanhourtooearly.

           StillIopenedthegate,andputthepetrolpumpinreadiness.Therewasalwaysacarortwopassingatthathourwantingafill.

           SuddenlyIheardbehindmeaharsh,high-pitchedsqueaking—likethesoundofarustyhoistbeingturnedsomewheredownundertheearth.Istoodstillandlistened.Iwalkedbackacrosstheyardtotheworkshopandcautiouslyopenedthedoor.

           Aghost—stumblingaboutinthegloom!Ithadadirtywhiteclothwoundaboutitshead,itsskirtwashitcheduptogiveitskneesclearance;ithadablueapron,apairofthickslippers,andwaswieldingabroom;itweighedaroundfourteenstone,andwasinfactourcharwoman,MatildaStoss.

           Istoodwatchingher.Withallthegraceofahippopotamus,shemadeherwaystaggeringamongtheradiators,singinginahollowvoiceasshewent"theSongoftheBoldHussar."Onthebenchbythewindowstoodtwocognacbottles,oneofthemalmostempty.Lastnighttheyhadbeenfull.Ihadforgottentolockthemaway.

           "ButFrauStoss!"Iprotested.

           Thesingingstopped;thebroomdroppedtothefloor.Thebeatificsmilediedaway.Nowitwasmyturntobetheghost.