“Eh! I do believe it knows my name,” cried the boy, scrambling to his feet, and preparing to renew his flight; but Bumpus laid his heavy hand on his collar, and held him fast.
“Wot did it speak?”
“Yes; listen! Oh dear! come, fly!”
Instead of flying, the seaman heaved a deep sigh; and, sitting down on a rock, took out a reddish brown cotton handkerchief wherewith he wiped his forehead.
“My boy,” said he, still panting; “it ain’t a ghost. No ghost wos ever known to speak. They looks, an’ they runs, an’ they yells, an’ they vanishes, but they never speaks; d’ye see? I told ye it was a sciencrific dolusion; though, I’m bound for to confess, I never heer’d o’ von o’ them critters speakin’, no more than the ghosts. Howsomedever, that’s wot it is.”
Corrie, who still hesitated, and held himself in readiness to bolt at a moment’s notice, suddenly cried—
“Why, I do believe it’s—No: it can’t be—yes—I say, it’s Poopy!”
“Wot’s Poopy?” inquired the seaman, in some anxiety.
“What, don’t you know Poopy, Alice’s black maid, who keeps her company, and looks after her; besides ‘doin’ her, and ‘undoin’ her, (as she calls it), night and morning, and putting her to bed? Hooray! Poopy, my lovely black darling; where have you come from? You’ve frightened Bumpus here nearly out of his wits. I do believe he’d have bin dead by this time, but for me!”
So saying, Corrie, in the revulsion of his suddenly relieved feelings, actually threw his arms round Poopy, and hugged her.