“Why did you ask?”
“Well, I thot ef ye did you’d like to know this here rock is sayd to have a ha’nt.”
“To be haunted!” exclaimed Dawson, edging a little closer.
“Yes, be Bill Springle’s ghos’. I never put much stock in the story meself, but that’s what folks sais. I know them ez claims to hev seen it. I knows one man ez refused to sleep here all night fer a five-dollar bill.”
“Goodness me!” said the rector. “I had no idea the people hereabouts were so superstitious.”
“It ain’t jest superstition, Parson. It’s mostly seein’ an’ believin’. Bill Springle’s ben dead these thirty year, an’ in that time, they sais, many folks hes seen him.”
“Eben, the spirits of the dead have better things to do than to spend their nights sitting on cold, damp rocks.”
“I know, Parson, I know; but the case o’ Springle was onusual. He lived back along the other mo’ntain an’ one night killed a pedler fer his money. The sheriff’s posse chased him clean acrosst the walley to the river, an’ here they loss sight o’ him. Fer a whole week they beat up an’ down the bank an’ then give up the chase. A year after they foun’ all that was left o’ Bill Springle wedged right in that crack ahint me.”
Dawson arose to his knees and peered over the prostrate body of his companion into the interesting crevice. Then he fell back to his old place, giving vent, as he did so, to a little laugh.
“He’d starved to death,” Eben continued, “an’ they sais that sometimes on stormy nights he kin be seen settin’ here. I never put much faith in the story meself, ez——”