"Oh! you chaps, you as I've seen grow up from babbies—aren't theer one o' ye to tak' the old man's word an' believe as I seen un?" The cracked old voice sounded more broken than usual, and I saw a tear crawling slowly down the Ancient's furrowed cheek. Nobody answered, and there fell a silence broken only by the shuffle and scrape of heavy boots and the setting down of tankards.
"Why, ye see, Gaffer," said Job at last, "theer's been a lot o' talk o' this 'ere ghost, an' some 'as even said as they 'eerd it, but, come to think on it, nobody's never laid eyes on it but you, so—"
"There you are wrong, my fellow," said I, stepping into the room. "I also have seen it."
"You?" exclaimed Job, while half-a-dozen pairs of eyes stared at me in slow wonderment.
"Certainly I have."
"But you said as it were a Scotchman, wi' a bagpipe, I heerd ye—we all did."
"And believed it—like fools!"
"Peter!" cried the Ancient, rising up out of his chair, "Peter, do 'ee mean it?"
"To be sure I do."
"Do 'ee mean it were a ghost, Peter, do 'ee?"