Landlord was a bit upset at this. “I don't want to be unneighborly,” he said, “but I wish you hadn't brought your ship into my field. You see, my wife sets great store on these turnips.”
The captain took a pinch of snuff out of a fine gold box that he pulled out of his pocket, and dusted his fingers with a silk handkerchief in a very genteel fashion. “I'm only here for a few months,” he said, “but if a testimony of my esteem would pacify your good lady, I should be content,” and with the words he loosed a great gold brooch from the neck of his coat and tossed it down to landlord.
Landlord blushed as red as a strawberry. “I'm not denying she's fond of jewelry,” he said; “but it's too much for half a sackful of turnips.” Indeed it was a handsome brooch.
The captain laughed. “Tut, man!” he said, “it's a forced sale, and you deserve a good price. Say no more about it,” and nodding good day to us, he turned on his heel and went into the cabin. Landlord walked back up the lane like a man with a weight off his mind. “That tempest has blowed me a bit of luck,” he said; “the missus will be main pleased with that brooch. It's better than blacksmith's guinea any day.”
'97 was Jubilee year—the year of the second Jubilee, you remember, and we had great doings at Fairfield, so that we hadn't much time to bother about the ghost-ship, though, anyhow, it isn't our way to meddle in things that don't concern us. Landlord he saw his tenant once or twice when he was hoeing his turnips, and passed the time of day and landlord's wife wore her new brooch to church every Sunday. But we didn't mix much with the ghosts at any time, all except an idiot lad there was in the village, and he didn't know the difference between a man and a ghost, poor innocent! On Jubilee day, however, somebody told Captain Roberts why the church bells were ringing, and he hoisted a flag and fired off his guns like a loyal Englishman. 'T is true the guns were shotted, and one of the round shot knocked a hole in Farmer Johnstone's barn, but nobody thought much of that in such a season of rejoicing.
It wasn't till our celebrations were over that we noticed that anything was wrong in Fairfield. 'T was shoemaker who told me first about it one morning at the Fox and Grapes. “You know my great-great-uncle?” he said to me.
“You mean Joshua, the quiet lad?” I answered, knowing him well.
“Quiet!” said shoemaker, indignantly. “Quiet you call him, coming home at three o'clock every morning as drunk as a magistrate and waking up the whole house with his noise!”
“Why, it can't be Joshua,” I said, for I knew him for one of the most respectable young ghosts in the village.
“Joshua it is,” said shoemaker; “and one of these nights he'll find himself out in the street if he isn't careful.”