"A hearse!" Mr. Noy stared at me, and then his eye fell on the farmer, who had been helping to unbutton my tunic, but was now drawn back a pace from me with amazement written all over his honest face. "A hearse?" repeated Mr. Noy.
"Why, however—" began the farmer, with his eyes slowly widening.
"A hearse," said I, "with black nodding plumes and (I believe) a headless driver. Let me see—" I began to hum the air sung by Jim the guard:—
"The wheels go round without a sound—"
"The wheels go round without a sound—"
The two women had dropped their work and stood peering at me, the pair of them quaking.
"He's seen it—he's seen it!" gasped the farmer's wife.
"A hearse?" cried Mr. Noy once more, and this time almost in a scream. "When? where?"
"On Blackadon Down, sir," answered Mr. Menhennick. "'Tis an old story that the moor's haunted, and folks have been putting it round that the thing's been seen two or three times lately. But there—'tis nothing to pay any heed to."
"Oh, isn't it!"