“Old George ’ere ses there’s a ghost on the wharf,” said Joe.
“I’ve seen it three times,” said the watchman, eager for sympathy.
“I expect it’s a death-warning for you, George,” said the voice, solemnly. “The last watchman died sudden, you remember.”
“So he did,” said Joe.
“His ’art was wrong,” said George, curtly; “’ad been for years.”
“Well, we can’t do nothin’ for you, George,” said Joe, kindly; “it’s no good us going up. We sha’n’t see it. It isn’t meant for us.”
“’Ow d’yer know it’s a ghost,” said a third voice, impatiently; “very likely while you’re all jawing about it down ’ere it’s a-burglin’ the offis.”
Joe gave a startled grunt, and, rolling out of his bunk, grabbed his trousers, and began to dress. Three other shadowy forms followed suit, and, hastily dressing, followed the watchman on deck and gained the wharf. They went through the gloomy ground floor in a body, yawning sleepily.
“I shouldn’t like to be a watchman,” said a young ordinary seaman named Tim, with a shiver; “a ghost might easy do anything with you while you was all alone. P’r’aps it walks up an’ down behind you, George, makin’ faces. We shall be gorn in another hour, George.”
The office, when they reached it, was undisturbed, and, staying only long enough to drink the watchman’s coffee, which was heating on a gas-jet, they left it and began to search the wharf, Joe leading with a small lantern.