“Why,” said the other, with an uneasy laugh, “did you think I was dead, George? Ha, ha! Feel that!”
He fetched the horrified man a thump in the back, which stopped even his gurgles.
“That feel like a dead man?” asked the smiter, raising his hand again. “Feel”—
The mate moved back hastily. “That’ll do,” said he fiercely; “ghost or no ghost, don’t you hit me like that again.”
“A’ right, George,” said the other, as he meditatively felt the stiff grey whiskers which framed his red face. “What’s the news?”
“The news,” said George, who was of slow habits and speech, “is that you was found last Tuesday week off St. Katherine’s Stairs, you was sat on a Friday week at the Town o’ Ramsgate public-house, and buried on Monday afternoon at Lowestoft.”
“Buried?” gasped the other, “sat on? You’ve been drinking, George.”
“An’ a pretty penny your funeral cost, I can tell you,” continued the mate. “There’s a headstone being made now—‘Lived lamented and died respected,’ I think it is, with ‘Not lost, but gone before,’ at the bottom.”
“Lived respected and died lamented, you mean,” growled the old man; “well, a nice muddle you have made of it between you. Things always go wrong when I’m not here to look after them.”
“You ain’t dead, then?” said the mate, taking no notice of this unreasonable remark, “Where’ve you been all this long time?”