Yet, in a little while, I set aside the hammer, and turned to the door.
"Peter, wheer be goin'?"
"To try and make my peace with the Ancient," I answered, and forthwith crossed the road to "The Bull." But with my foot on the step I paused, arrested by the sound of voices and laughter within the tap, and, loudest of all, was the voice of the pseudo blacksmith, Job.
"If I were only a bit younger!" the Ancient was saying. Now, peeping in through the casement, a glance at his dejected attitude, and the blatant bearing of the others, explained to me the situation then and there.
"Ah! but you ain't," retorted old Amos, "you 'm a old, old man an' gettin' older wi' every tick o' the clock, you be, an' gettin' mazed-like wi' years."
"Haw! haw!" laughed Job and the five or six others.
"Oh, you—Job! if my b'y Simon was 'ere 'e'd pitch 'ee out into the road, so 'e would—same as Black Jarge done," quavered the Ancient.
"P'r'aps, Gaffer, p'r'aps!" returned Job, "but I sez again, I believe what Peter sez, an' I don't believe there never was no ghost at all."
"Ay, lad, but I tell 'ee theer was—I seed un!" cried the old man eagerly, "seed un wi' these two eyes, many's the time. You, Joel Amos—you've 'eerd un a-moanin' an' a-groanin'—you believe as I seed un, don't 'ee now come?"
"He! he!" chuckled Old Amos, "I don't know if I du, Gaffer—ye see you 'm gettin' that old—"