 I'll go first. Please, England, to see the sights. I've got to widen that narrow road so we can drive our tanks down to the coast. Push out, get in that bulldozer, and shove that rock out of the way. Well, couldn't we do it tomorrow? Sergeant, it's mighty dark tonight. No, maybe a witch. You see, they burned the witch at the stake here 200 years ago and buried her under that rock. I haven't, say, Rogers. You don't mean to tell me that. Oh, I'm easy to say that if that rock is moved, the ghost will escape from a grave and turn this town upside down. Now look, Private Rogers, get in that bulldozer and shove that rock out of the way, or I'll heart-chant K.P. for the rest of your natural life. We'll see if there's a ghost around here. You have to sleep when suddenly I hear the back door slam. You hear that? And then a thorny annoyance. What did I tell you, boys? It was that blinking Yankee bulldozer, Chappy. What started all this? Hold on, Mr. Sikes. All of a sudden, I feel a chill, and there's a lump in the bed between me and the moonlight streaming through the window. My voice freezes and my wind pipe. Now I may. And before I can summon the strength to jump out of my bed and gear, shout, the lump disappears. The bedroom door opens, and I hear the front door slam. If that ain't the ghost of scrap-flaggot green, ret-fighting. Shh. Here comes the stranger. Mr. Sikes, Mr. Walter J. Sikes. That's me, Walter J. Sikes, owner of your old Queen Anne's Cosselin. What can I do for you? Well, my name is Boyd Lewis of the United Press. I just got in to Great Lees from London. The American newspaper man. That's right, sir. The United Press wants to know if there's any truth to the story about the ghost of scrap-flaggot green. Is there any truth? Why, sir? Listen, Mr. Lewis, and I'll fill you in on background. A witch was burned at the stake here at Great Lees 200 years ago. She's been resting peacefully all these years until last night. Ah, last night, two American soldiers used a bulldozer to push away the stone on her grave. Allowing her spirit to escape, I did. And of all the people she had to call on, she picked on me first. I don't like the looks of it at all. What do you think, Mr. Lewis? I think I'll call on those two American soldiers. Mr. Playsay, Sergeant? That's right, Mr. Lewis. We just pushed it away. Yeah, and I remember hearing a terrible sound like a screech out. Yeah, yeah, I remember that, too. But it could have been the wind. Well, now tell me, did you see anything? Not a thing. All I know is the folks around here are blaming this ghost business on us. Yeah, and we don't like the idea of a ghost messing up this war, see? Hey, Sergeant, what about you spending the night with me at the inn? We might find out something about this ghost of scrap-faggot green. Well, that suits me, Mr. Lewis. I'm ready for anything. Sykes' room is next to ours, ain't it? That's what she's sleeping like. Ah! Oh, man, Sykes. Yeah, yeah, let's go. Are you all right, Mr. Sykes? What happened? I was in bed. Suddenly, I heard a noise over by the bookcase. When I got up, somebody screamed, and I hit the floor. Hey, Mr. Lewis, take a look at these books, will you? Let's see. It's funny. All the jackets have been changed. It was the ghost of scrap-faggot green. Hey, the Shakespeare jacket's on the girls' way. The Somerset mourns on the tall story. I tell you, nobody but a ghost could have caused that. It was that blinking Yankee bulldozer that started all this. No, Mr. Lewis. That may sound funny, but the reputation of the American army is at stake here. We can't afford to be blamed for turning a ghost loose on our lives. The next move is all set, Sergeant. The United Press is sent for Professor Harry Price. Yeah? Who's he? Professor Price is a member of the London Council on Psychical Research, the supernatural. Yeah, yeah, I get you. The professor will prove whether there's really a ghost of scrap-faggot green and Great Lees. Hey, better prove it. We can't have a ghost messing us up in this war. That the spirit of scrap-faggot green has escaped. We must lose no time in inducing this ghost or spirit to resume her position in the grave. Excuse me, Professor. How do you propose to do that? It's quite simple, Mr. Lewis. By replacing the stone in the exact spot from where it was pushed from her grave. That shouldn't be hard. We are working against time, gentlemen. I trust you realize that tomorrow is Friday the 13th. No, I'm not. I fear to think what mischief this ghost might cause if she were allowed to remain at large on that day of dark omens. We'd better get her under today. We'll be in for it tonight. Right, Mr. Lewis? I don't know. So that its four-foot length is pointed you north and south. All right, boys. Let's all push together. Right, shall we? Everybody all set? Right, yes, sir. Here. Yes, gentlemen, I am confident that the good people of Great Lees will have no further cause to worry about the ghost of scrap-faggot Greene. She is once again safely locked in her grave. Mr. McIntosh? Yeah, yeah, help me. And I'm warning you all, the ghost of scrap-faggot Greene will not stay buried. Robby! Why do you say that, Mr. McIntosh? Because the bloomin' eye on the rock point sideways. What are you driving at? Walter Sakes. I've been past that stone every day for 44 years. And the eye has always pointed up blind. McIntosh is right. Of course, I'm right. Oh, Mr. Lewis, here we go again. There's nothing to be alarmed about, Sergeant. Nothing to be alarmed about. The professor, where's the professor? The professor has returned to London. But just to make sure this mystery is cleared up, the United Press is having another expert on the supernatural here in Great Lees tomorrow. Who is he? Dr. D. G. J. McSweeney of County Cork Island. Now, gentlemen, I think we should all retire. Good morning, Mr. McIntosh. Morning, Mr. Sakes. Morning. Apparently, the ghost of scrap-faggot Greene is safely buried. The sergeant and I never heard of Peabody all night. Yeah, that's right. No, that's wrong. The ghost is on the loose again. It's impossible. Impossible, eh? Well, how do you explain the fact that Mr. Chippins found his rabbit sitting on eggs in the chicken coop? No. Yes. In my flock, a geese disappeared. They found him just now at the grave of the ghost of scrap-faggot Greene. And Dr. McSweeney should have arrived long ago. He's already here. Said he was going out to investigate. Investigate what? You can't catch a ghost. Dr. McSweeney, my name is Boyd Lewis of the United Press. Oh, yes, Mr. Lewis. Yes. Any news on the ghost of scrap-faggot Greene? Yes. But I'd like to announce it in Mr. Sakes' bag. OK, let's go in. Nothing to be alarmed about. I have just completed a thorough investigation. In my toy, I ask, what is your solution? Yes. Yes. You, Mr. Walter J. Sakes, are the solution. Me? Yes. I find that all of the witnesses to the unusual happenings caused by this ghost are customers of the pub here, owned by the principal witness, Mr. Sakes. No wonder. There's a minute here. You have an eye for business, Mr. Sakes. In fact, since this ghost scare, your business has increased considerably, hasn't it? Well, yes, but yeah. You'll face the switching of the book jackets and us for your geese wandering away. Well, I have never known geese to stay in one place. The rest of the happenings were the product of well known, shall we say, habituaries of this pub. Mr. Sakes merely stimulated your imaginations and you unwittingly cooperated with him admirably. Well, gentlemen, am I right or am I wrong? Dr. McSweeney, it looks as if you're right. I believe in ghosts, Mr. Lewis. But I have arrived at the reluctant conclusion that the ghost of scrap-faggot green is to be blunt, a hawks. Ghost on the loose in England as reported by United Press correspondent Boyd Lewis. We will present another in this series, Soldiers of the Press, soon. Be sure to listen. Meanwhile, look for United Press dispatches in your favorite newspaper. Listen for United Press news and the air. They are your guarantee of the world's best coverage of the world's biggest news.