"How d'ye mean?" I questioned, reaching the ale he had brought. "What talk is this of ghosts?"
"What's yon?" he whispered, starting up, as a rustling sounded beyond the door.
"Mere rats, man!"
"Lord love ye, Mart'n," says he, glancing about him, "'tis a chancy place this. I don't know how ye can abide it."
"I've known worse!" said I.
"Then ye don't believe in spectres, Mart'n—ghosts, pal, nor yet phantoms?"
"No, I don't!"
"Well, Mart'n, there be strange talk among the crew o' something as do haunt the 'tween-decks—"
"Aye, I've overheard some such!" I nodded. "But, look ye, I've haunted the ship myself of late."
"And yet you've seen nowt o' this thing, pal?"