“The moment I died,” ses Silas, “I thought of my promise towards you. 'Bill's expecting me,' I ses, and, instead of staying in comfort at the bottom of the sea, I kicked off the body of the cabin-boy wot was clinging round my leg, and 'ere I am.”
“It was very—t-t-thoughtful—of you—Silas,” ses Bill; “but you always— w-w-was—thoughtful. Good-by.”
Afore Silas could answer, Mrs. Burtenshaw, who felt more comfortable, 'aving got a bit o' the clothes back, thought it was time to put 'er spoke in.
“Lor' bless me, Bill,” she ses. “Wotever are you a-talking to yourself like this for? 'Ave you been dreaming?”
“Dreaming!” ses pore Bill, catching hold of her 'and and gripping it till she nearly screamed. “I wish I was. Can't you see it?”
“See it?” ses his wife. “See wot?”
“The ghost,” ses Bill, in a 'orrible whisper; “the ghost of my dear, kind old pal, Silas Winch. The best and noblest pal a man ever 'ad. The kindest-'arted——”
“Rubbish,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw. “You've been dreaming. And as for the kindest-'arted pal, why I've often heard you say—”
“H'sh!” ses Bill. “I didn't. I'll swear I didn't. I never thought of such a thing.”
“You turn over and go to sleep,” ses his wife, “hiding your 'ead under the clothes like a child that's afraid o' the dark! There's nothing there, I tell you. Wot next will you see, I wonder? Last time it was a pink rat.”