But the Squire did not get over the discovery. He strode about the large kitchen, rubbing his face, giving out sundry Bless my hearts! at intervals. The return to life of Charlotte Tinkle had been marvellous enough, but it was nothing to this.
Meanwhile we were on our road to Duffham’s. Leaving Dobbs at his own forge, we rushed on, and found the doctor in his little parlour at supper; pickled eels and bread-and-cheese: the eels in the wide stone jar they were baked in—which was Nomy’s way of serving pickled fish.
“Will you sit down and take some?” asked Duffham, pointing to the jar: out of which he took the pieces with a fork as he wanted them.
“I should like to, but there’s no time for it,” answered Tod, eyeing the jar wistfully.
Pickled eels are a favourite dish in our parts: and you don’t often eat anything as good.
“Look here, Duffham,” he went on: “we want you to go with us and see—see somebody: and to undertake not to tell tales out of school. The Squire has answered for it that you will not.”
“See who?” asked Duffham, going on with his supper.
“A ghost,” said Tod, grimly. “A dead man.”
“What good can I do them?”
“Well, the man has come to life again. Not for long, though, I should say, judging by his looks. You are not to go and tell about it, mind.”