"A boot as ever was," nodded the Ancient, and took a pinch of snuff with great apparent gusto.
"Go on," said I, "go on."
"Oh!—it's a fine story, a fine story!" he chuckled. "Theer bean't many men o' my age as 'as fund a 'ung man in a thunderstorm! Well, as I tell ye, I seen a boot, likewise a leg, an' theer were this 'ere wanderin' man o' the roads a-danglin' be'ind th' door from a stapil—look ye!" he exclaimed, rising with some little difficulty, and hobbling into the hut, "theer be th' very stapil, so it be!" and he pointed up to a rusty iron staple that had been driven deep into the beam above the door.
"And why," said I, "why did he hang himself?"
"Seein' e' 'ad no friends, and never told nobody—nobody never knowed," answered the old man, shaking his head, "but on that theer stapil 'e 'ung 'isself, an' on that theer stapil I fund 'im, on a stormy night sixty and six year ago come August."
"You have a wonderful memory!" said I.
"Ay, to be sure; a wunnerful mem'ry, a wunnerful mem'ry!"
"Sixty and six years is an age," said I.
"So it be," nodded the Ancient. "I were a fine young chap in those days, tall I were, an' straight as a arrer, I be a bit different now."
"Why, you are getting old," said I.