“Yes.”
“Ever heard the yarn of the house that wasn’t built?”
I told him how much I had heard of it.
“And that’s about all any on ’em knows. Have you any idea who that man back yonder is?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Well, who do you think it is?”
“He is, or rather he was, young Brassington.”
“You’ve hit it!” said the publican. “I know—and a few others.”
“And do you know what became of his wife?” I asked.
“I do,” said the shanty-keeper, who had a generous supply of whisky with him, and seemed to have begun to fill himself up for the trip.