Here Rokens paused.
“Wot was it?” inquired Gurney, in a solemn whisper.
“It was,” resumed Rokens slowly, “the stump of a old tree.”
“Oh, I thought it had been the ghost,” said Gurney, somewhat relieved, for that fat little Jack-tar fully believed in apparitions, and always listened to a ghost story in fear and trembling.
“No it wasn’t the ghost; it was the stump of a tree. Well, I set sail again, an’ presently I sees a great white thing risin’ up ahead o’ me.”
“Hah! that was it,” whispered Gurney.
“No, that wasn’t it,” retorted Rokens; “that was a hinn, a white-painted hinn, as stood by the roadside, and right glad wos I to see it, I can tell ye, shipmates, for I wos gittin’ tired as well as frightened. I soon roused the landlord by kickin’ at the door till it nearly comed off its hinges; and arter gettin’ another glass o’ grog, I axed the landlord to show me my bunk, as I wanted to turn in.
“It was a queer old house that hinn wos. A great ramblin’ place, with no end o’ staircases and passages. A dreadful gloomy sort o’ place. No one lived in it except the landlord, a dark-faced surly fellow as one would like to kick out of his own door, and his wife, who wos little better than his-self. They also had a hostler, but he slept with the cattle in a hout-house.
“‘Ye won’t be fear’d,’ says the landlord, as he hove ahead through the long passages holdin’ the candle high above his head to show the way, ‘to sleep in the far end o’ the house. It’s the old bit; the new bit’s undergoin’ repairs. You’ll find it comfortable enough, though it’s raither gusty, bein’ old, ye see; but the weather ain’t cold, so ye won’t mind it.’
“‘Oh! niver a bit,’ says I, quite bold like; ‘I don’t care a rap for nothin’. There ain’t no ghosts, is there?’