It struck me that this idiot was in some way connected with the story of old Squire Bowes.
"Queer things are told of him, I dare say?" I suggested.
"More or less, sir; more or less. Queer stories, some."
"Twenty years since he slept in a house? That's about the time the Squire died," I continued.
"So it will be, sir; and not very long after."
"You must tell me all about that, Tom, to-night, when I can hear it comfortably, after supper."
Tom did not seem to like my invitation; and looking straight before him as we trudged on, he said,
"You see, sir, the house has been quiet, and nout's been troubling folk inside the walls or out, all round the woods of Barwyke, this ten year, or more; and my old woman, down there, is clear against talking about such matters, and thinks it best—and so do I—to let sleepin' dogs be."
He dropped his voice towards the close of the sentence, and nodded significantly.
We soon reached a point where he unlocked a wicket in the park wall, by which we entered the grounds of Barwyke once more.