“Well, I’m awfully sorry,” said he at length. “But tell us—what was it you saw, really?”
“A wuzzard.”
“What was it like?”
“Nothin’,” then suddenly, and as if unburdening her soul, “I hadn’t more’n got the last of the eggs when I turned and saw him walking on the sands,—little old man with a glass under his arm, dressed queer in a long coat, an’ a hat on his head like an I dunno what. I wasn’t afraid, thought he was real, and he stuck the glass to his eye ’sif he was looking out for a ship.”
“Yes.”
“Then he went out—puff—like the sniff of a candle—hu—hu—” She clung to him.
“It was all my fault,” said he, “talking that nonsense. Don’t think of it: it was only an optical illusion.”
“He didn’t cast a shadow—I remember now.”
“That proves it. I’ve often heard cases like that. Sir Walter Scott saw a man like that once, and he knew it was only an illusion. He had some wine handy and he drank a glass of it, and the thing disappeared.”
“I reckon I’d have drunk a barrel of rum if I’d had one handy,” said Jude, drawing away a bit. “Let’s get off. Lord! Look at the sun—it’s half down. Come’n help with the boat.”