“Faix I do, to my sorrow!” says I; “to Miles O’Rourke’s ghost!”
“Miles O’Rourke’s ghost!” says he.
“Dickens a doubt of it!” says I. “Didn’t I see his body lying stark and dead, wid the blood welling out in gallons from his heart?”
“It wasn’t my heart, man alive—it was my shoulder; and shure it was the loss of that same that made me faint! Take a hould of my hand, if you doubt me! There’s little left of it but skin and bone; but it’s human still!”
It was moightily against my own wish,—and wid a cowld shiver running down my back, I did as he asked; but whin I did catch a hould of his fist, ghost or no ghost, he nearly made mine into a jelly wid the squeeze he gave it.
“Murther alive!” says I.
“Hould your whist! Remember, I’m a ghost!” says he.
“That’s thrue for you!” says I; “and you must continue one for the rest of the voyage, or maybe you will be trated as something worse!”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“A stowaway!” says I. “The skipper’s a good man enough; but if he discovers you, the way he’ll sarve you will be awful!”