Then my hand went down to my pocket.

Sometimes even after I felt my pipe, I had a conviction that it was stopped, and only by a desperate effort did I keep myself from producing it and blowing down it.

I distinctly remember once dreaming three nights in succession that I was on the Scotch express without it.
More than once, I know, I have wandered in my sleep, looking for it in all sorts of places, and after I went to bed I generally jumped out, just to make sure of it.

My strong belief, then, is that I was the ghost seen by the writer of the paper.

I fancy that I rose in my sleep, lighted a candle, and wandered down to the hall to feel if my pipe was safe in my coat, which was hanging there.