"Peter!" said the Ancient, nodding solemnly, "Peter, I 'ates ye!" and, turning sharp about, he tottered away upon his stick.
"So—that's it!" said I, staring after the old man's retreating figure.
"Why, ye see," said George, somewhat diffidently, "ye see, Peter, Gaffer be so old!—and all 'is friends be dead, and he've come to look on this 'ere ghost as belongin' to 'im a'most. Loves to sit an' tell about it, 'e do; it be all 'e've got left to live for, as ye might say, and now you've been and gone and said as theer bean't no ghost arter all, d'ye see?"
"Ah, yes, I see," I nodded, "I see. But you don't still, believe in this ghost, do you, George?"
"N-o-o-o—not 'xactly," answered George, hesitating upon the word, "can't say as I believe 'xactly, and yet, Lord! 'ow should I know?"
"Then you do still believe in the ghost?"
"Why, y' see, Peter, we do know as a man 'ung 'isself theer, 'cause Gaffer found un—likewise I've heerd it scream—but as for believin' in it, since you say contrarywise—why, 'ow should I know?"
"But why should I deny it, George; why should I tell you all of a
Scotsman?"
"Why, y' see, Peter," said George, in his heavy way, "you be such a strange sort o' chap!"
"George," said I, "let us get back to work."