“Oh! I don’t know,” said Flo, “I don’t know nothink ’bout my dear Scamp.”
“Oh yes, ’ees dear Scamp to be sure,” said Janey. “Well, I’ll tell yer ’bout Scamp, and hall I ’opes is that we may never lay heyes on ’im no more.”
“Why?” asked Flo.
“There! I’m a comin’ to wy. Last night wen you, and Dick, and Jenks, and mother was orf to the Derby, and I mad like at bein’ left, which mother would do ’cause I was lame, I came hover and sat close to the cellar, a-listenin’ to Scamp, who was ’owlin’ real orfle, and I thought as it ’ud be a lark to go down into the cellar, fur I knew he wor tied, and hanger ’im a bit, and I tried the door, but it wor locked as firm as firm, so arter a bit I went away, and I got a little stool and sat up on the ground houtside our cellar, and there I dropped orf asleep. And wen I ’woke it wor dark, and on’y the ‘twinkle, twinkle, little stars’ hout, and there wor a noise, and I looked, and hout o’ your cellar, as was locked as firm as no one could move it, wor a man’s ’ead a comin’—a man wid a round ’ead, and thick body, and bandy legs, and in ’is arms, a ’owlin’ and a struggling that ’ere blessed dawg.”
“Oh! the willan!” said Flo. “’Ee stole my dawg. Did yer foller ’im, Janey?”
“No, I didn’t,” said Janey; “I foller ’im—I’d like it. Wy, Flo Darrell, ’ee worn’t a man at all. ’Ow was a man in yer locked hup cellar? No, ’ee wor a ghost—that’s wot ’ee wor. And Scamp ain’t a real dawg, but a ghost dawg, and yer well rid o’ ’im, Flo Darrell.”