"Zounds!" he exclaimed, and gaped.
Something in the Sergeant's attitude seemed to strike Mr. Dalroyd who, returning this searching look, lounged back against the wall, one hand toying with the curls of his wig, and when next he spoke his voice was as languidly soft as usual.
"What now, ass?" The Sergeant drew a deep breath:
"Talking o' ghosts and apparations," said he, "I aren't so sure as you ain't one, arter all."
"Why, worm?"
"Because if you happened to be wearing an officer's coat—red and blue facings, say, and your legs in a pair o' jack-boots, I should know—ah, I'd be sure you was a ghost."
"What d'ye mean?" Mr. Dalroyd's slender brows scowled suddenly, and before the malevolence of his eyes the Sergeant gave back another step.
"What d'ye mean, toad?"
"I mean as you'd be dead! But your coat ain't red, is it, sir? And your jack-boots is buckle-shoes, and you're very much alive, ain't you, sir—so I'll ax you to pick up your property and to get back over the wall yonder and to do it—prompt, sir."
The Sergeant was a powerful fellow, at his hip swung a heavy hanger and in hairy fist he gripped a very ugly, knobby bludgeon, observing which facts, Mr. Dalroyd did as was suggested; but, ere he dropped back into the lane he turned and smiled down at the stalwart Sergeant.