“‘I can’t think why I didn’t think of it,’ she ses, looking round. ‘I was going out like a lamb. Mr. Green——’
“‘One moment,’ ses Foxy, ’olding up ’is ’and. ‘I should be a terrible, bad, cruel, unkind husband to anybody I didn’t like. Don’t say words you’ll be sorry for arterwards, Mrs. Pottle.’
“‘I’m not going to,’ ses Mrs. Pottle; ‘the words I’m going to say will be good for both of us; I’m far more suitable for you than a young gal—Mr. Green, will you marry me?’
“Foxy Green looked at ’er for a moment, and then ’e looked round at all them grinning men wot he’d brought there by mistake to see ’im made a fool of. Then in a low, ’usky voice he ses, ‘I will.’”
JERRY BUNDLER
It wanted a few nights to Christmas, a festival for which the small market town of Torchester was making extensive preparations. The narrow streets which had been thronged with people were now almost deserted; the cheap-jack from London, with the remnant of breath left him after his evening’s exertions, was making feeble attempts to blow out his naphtha lamp, and the last shops open were rapidly closing for the night.
In the comfortable coffee-room of the old Boar’s Head, half a dozen guests, principally commercial travellers, sat talking by the light of the fire. The talk had drifted from trade to politics, from politics to religion, and so by easy stages to the supernatural. Three ghost stories, never known to fail before, had fallen flat; there was too much noise outside, too much light within. The fourth story was told by an old hand with more success; the streets were quiet, and he had turned the gas out. In the flickering light of the fire, as it shone on the glasses and danced with shadows on the walls, the story proved so enthralling that George, the waiter, whose presence had been forgotten, created a very disagreeable sensation by suddenly starting up from a dark corner and gliding silently from the room. “That’s what I call a good story,” said one of the men, sipping his hot whisky. “Of course it’s an old idea that spirits like to get into the company of human beings. A man told me once that he travelled down the Great Western with a ghost and hadn’t the slightest suspicion of it until the inspector came for tickets. My friend said the way that ghost tried to keep up appearances by feeling for it in all its pockets and looking on the floor was quite touching. Ultimately it gave it up and with a faint groan vanished through the ventilator.”
“That’ll do, Hirst,” said another man.
“It’s not a subject for jesting,” said a little old gentleman who had been an attentive listener. “I’ve never seen an apparition myself, but I know people who have, and I consider that they form a very interesting link between us and the afterlife. There’s a ghost story connected with this house, you know.”
“Never heard of it,” said another speaker, “and I’ve been here some years now.”