Whin I had done, the ghost’s jaws moved, and, in a voice so hoarse and hollow, that it might have come from the bottom of a churchyard vault, half-moaned, half-groaned, “It’s grace you’re saying, you imperint young blaggard!”
“It is,” says I, trimbling all over. “That is, if it’s not displasing to your honour’s lordship.”
“That depinds,” says he, “upon what you are going to give me to ate after it.”
“Ate!” says I. “Why, thin, be good to us! can you ate?”
“Thry me,” says he, “and you’ll see whether I can or not; and make haste, for my time’s short! I must go down agin almost immadiately, and it isn’t the bit or sup I’ve had for near onto five days; and by rason of that, although I was a strong man once, it’s nearly gone I am!”
“Gone where?” I asked.
“To my grave,” says he.
“Bad cess to them, whoever they were, that ought to have done it, and didn’t! Haven’t they buried you yet?” I inquired.
“What would they bury me for?” says he.
“It’s customary with corpses where I come from,” I answered.