The landlord frowned on the other's levity, and dropped his voice to a whisper.
"They do say—and what am I to deny it?—that th' ghost o' th' brandy-bottle is th' hardest to bear; it shooits up i' th' air, an' dithers around, an' then strikes t' other ghost so as to bring a bloody stream from his forehead.—But idle chaps will allus be telling idle tales," he finished, replenishing his pipe.
The discrepancy between the opening of his speech and the finish was easily accounted for. Pride in the village ghost had led him on to wax eloquent in description, but monetary interest induced him not to put hindrances in the way of a good bargain. Doubtless there would be pickings for himself if his guest took Wynyates Hall.
A long silence followed.
"Ye come fro' th' low country, I'm thinking?" said Boniface at length.
"From—from the low country?" repeated the stranger.
"Ay—from t' South, as some fowk call it."
"Oh, yes, I'm from the South."
"I thowt as mich fro' your spache. Happen, then, ye'll know Miller Rotherson, what's ta'en th' mill i' Hazel Dene?"