“Stay, Ritchie,” I cried. “Don’t let’s have any of your ghost stories to-night I couldn’t stand them. The truth is, I’m a bit down-hearted.”
“Go and have a tot o’ rum; I’ll j’ine you.”
“No, Ritchie, that wouldn’t do either you or me good in the long run. But I dare say I’m feeling a trifle lonely; my brother isn’t the thing, I fear.”
“Nonsense, sir, nonsense. Never saw him looking better, nor you either, sir. I knows what’s the matter.”
“Well?”
“It’s the musgo that’s coming.”
“The musgo?”
“Ay, you’re new to the Straits, I must remember. The musgo is a fog, ‘a fiend fog’ I’ve heard it called. You always feel low-like afore it rolls down. To-morrow, sir, you’ll hardly see your finger afore you.”
“So dark!”
“It’s dark and it’s white—just as if it rolled off the snow, and so cold. You’ll see.”