“No-o-o! Our taking the lead.”
“Oh! I say, Tom, you are a chap,” cried his companion. “I know you believe in ghosts.”
“No, I don’t,” said Tom stoutly; “but I shouldn’t like to live in your old place all the same.”
“What! because it’s part of the old monastery?”
“Yes. The old fellows were all killed when the Danes came up the river in their boats and burned the place.”
“Well, father and I aren’t Danes, and we didn’t kill them. What stuff!”
“No, but it’s not nice all the same to live in a place where lots of people were murdered.”
“Tchah! who cares! I don’t. It’s a capital old place, and you never dig anywhere without finding something.”
“Yes,” said Tom solemnly, “something that isn’t always nice.”
“Well, you do sometimes,” said Dick, “but not often. But I wouldn’t leave the old place for thousands of pounds. Why, where would you get another like it with its old walls, and vaults, and cellars, and thick walls, and the monks’ fish-ponds, and all right up on a high toft with the river on one side, and the fen for miles on the other. Look at the fish.”