“Aye, young man,” cried Mr. Dumbrell, wiping his mouth, “fairieses—liddle bits o’ creeters bigger’n a squrrel an’ not so gurt as Mus’ Reynolds——”
“’E means a fox, sir,” quoth the explanatory Potter, observing Sir John’s puzzled look.
“’Old y’r tongue, Jarge, du!” snarled the old man. “Keep y’r mouth shet, Jarge, an’ gi’e me a chanct to spik, will ’ee? I be a bit oldish, mebbe, but I bean’t nowise doddlish!”
“Not you, Gaffer, not you!” answered Mr. Potter soothingly.
“Well, then, young man,” continued Mr. Dumbrell, “dappen ye sh’uld be a-walkin’ along-about the four-wents, Wilmington way, arter dark, you’d see the ghost o’ pore Tom Stickley as were shot ’longside o’ me whiles we was landin’ tubs over tu Cuckmere ’aven, one night thirty year agone an’ more! Pore Tom wears a sheet, ’e du, all mucked wi’ gore an’ gubber ... though why e’ should walk Wilmington way, I dunno.”
“But this ghost, Mr. Dumbrell, wore a pair of horns—eh, Bob?”
“Horns, indeed, sirs!” quoth Robert—“horns a yard wide, I’ll lay my oath, and all afire!”
“’Orns!” exclaimed the Ancient One scornfully. “I’ve seed ’em wi’ ’orns a-shootin’ out sparks an’ flame afore now, I ’ave! ’Orns? If ye was to go up-along Windover, aye, or Furrel at midnight—which nobody don’t never nowise du—you’d see more on ’em wi’ ’orns than ye could count in a month o’ Sundays, aye, that ye would!”
“Allus s’posin’ as they’ve got the ‘sight,’ gaffer!” added Mr. Potter. “Some ’as the gift o’ seem’ an’ some ’asn’t!”
“Do you believe in ghosts, Potter?” inquired Sir John.