“It was old Isaac, right enough—”
“Scarren,” I exclaimed with indignation, “don’t try that on with me.”
“Wait a bit, sir, don’t speak so loud. Let me tell you from the beginning, and then you’ll understand. About half an hour before you came, on the day that Isaac died, I was sitting smoking at him, and all at once he seemed to get much better.
“‘Scarren,’ says he in quite a strong voice, ‘I’ll never hear the cock crow no more; I’ll die before lock-up time.’
“‘Why, Isaac,’ says I, ‘you look as if you was quite your own self again. I believe you’ll be singin’ out the game again the day after to-morrow.’
“While we was talking we could hear the noise of the new cloth being nailed down. Isaac knew well enough what was going on and it made him angry.
“‘No,’ says he, quite raspy, ‘I’ll sing out no more games. Twenty years I’ve brushed her down, and they won’t let me die before rippin’ of her up.’
“Then he lay a long time silent, and I could see he was thinking hard about something. All at once he grips my hand—
“‘Scarren,’ says he, ‘do you believe in ghosts?’
“First of all I was going to say no; then I thought that if I said so it might annoy him after he was dead, and he might come and show me I was mistaken.