He looked out and saw that no one was coming in just then, so he disposed himself for a chat. Busying himself in arranging the buns on his counter, their fair array having been much diminished since morning, he went on.
"It's a queer story, and many folk laugh at it; and for my part I've lived next door for years and never saw anything. I've heard noises, but laid them to the rats. Rats are restless beasts, and it stands to reason that they'll scamper about an empty house for diversion; when they mean business, they come to me, worse, luck."
However interesting the natural history of rats from Mr. Allen's point of view might be, Roger would much rather have heard the history of the house; but he knew that there was no use in trying to hurry Mr. Allen, who would stand half an hour in discussing the merits of the basket of fish, and end by buying a herring or a small whiting.
Still, the last train to Sandsea must not go without him, so he kept an eye on the baker's clock and waited as patiently as he could.
"They say that it's haunted, you know," resumed Mr. Allen.
"By what?" asked Roger.
"Naturally, by a ghost. Old Rider, the last owner, the last who lived there at least, was found dead in his bed one day. And the servant, a girl from the workhouse, had robbed the till, and off she went, and was never caught to this day. And she won't be now, for that happened fifteen or sixteen years ago. Then a tailor—stop though, I forgot. Old Rider left a heap of money, though I do believe that a shilling a day would have paid his expenses; and his heir was a young lawyer in London, and he didn't want the shop."
"So then a tailor took it?"
"A tailor, a mite of a man, with a face like a half-baked roll," said the baker professionally. "And having been there a month, he gave it up and moved at great expense—said he couldn't stand the behaviour of old Rider, creeping up and down the stairs counting his money all night. He said he heard the chink of the money. Mind you, I say, rats!"
He did say "rats," and that with such energy that his little terrier, peacefully dozing under the counter, sprang up barking like a dog possessed, and flew at Roger, under the impression that he was a rat in disguise. He was ashamed of himself at once, for he and Roger were friends, and retired, with a reproachful glance at his master.