Ike looked sharply round at me, as if he half suspected me of ventriloquism, and it seemed so comical that I began to laugh.
“Look here,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “don’t you laugh. There’s something wrong about this here.”
He turned the other way, and holding tightly by the ladder looked out behind, leaning a good way from the side of the cart.
“I can’t see nothinct,” he grumbled, as he drew back and bent forward to pat the horse. “Seems rum.”
“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover.” There was the song or rather howl again, sounding curiously distant, and yet, odd as it may seem, curiously near, and Ike leant towards me.
“I say,” he whispered, “did you ever hear of anything being harnted?”
“Yes,” I said, “I’ve heard of haunted houses.”
“But you never heerd of a harnted market cart, did yer?”
“No,” I said laughing; “never.”
“That’s right,” he whispered.