“Yes, you as well as I. Was it not your evidence that convicted him? Would they not regard you as a murderer, and punish you accordingly? As a matter of course they would, and the best thing you can do is to keep your tongue in your head. Do you hear?”
Mike Terry heard, and it was evident, too, that he believed his crafty cousin, for he relapsed into silence and continued digging in the ground with his heel. At length, however, he looked up suddenly, with a strange glitter in his eyes.
“Jamie,” he whispered, huskily, “do yeez belave in spooks?”
McCabe started in spite of himself at this unexpected inquiry.
“Spooks, boy? What do you mean?”
“Why, ghosts, to be sure. Raal ginewine ghosts.”
“Ha, ha! of course I do not. But why do you ask?”
It was plain that the laugh was forced, and that the villain was not a little disconcerted by the question put to him. He was thinking of a night not long gone, which would ever be fresh in his memory, should he live a hundred years. There were a few gray hairs on his temples now, the effects of that night’s fright.
“The raison why I ax,” said Mike, “is this: I saw one!”