“If you 'ad died afore me,” ses Silas, “I should 'ave looked arter your good wife—wot I've now put in a sound sleep—as long as I lived.”
Bill didn't say anything.
“I should 'ave given 'er fifteen shillings a week,” ses Silas.
“'Ow much?” ses Bill, nearly putting his 'ead up over the clothes, while 'is wife almost woke up with surprise and anger.
“Fifteen shillings,” ses Silas, in 'is most awful voice. “You'll save that over the drink.”
“I—I'll go round and see her,” ses Bill. “She might be one o' these 'ere independent—”
“I forbid you to go near the place,” ses Silas. “Send it by post every week; 15 Shap Street will find her. Put your arm up and swear it; same as you did afore.”
Bill did as 'e was told, and then 'e lay and trembled, as Silas gave three more awful groans.
“Farewell, Bill,” he ses. “Farewell. I am going back to my bed at the bottom o' the sea. So long as you keep both your oaths I shall stay there. If you break one of 'em or go to see my pore wife I shall appear agin. Farewell! Farewell! Farewell!”
Bill said “Good-by,” and arter a long silence he ventured to put an eye over the edge of the clothes and discovered that the ghost 'ad gone. He lay awake for a couple o' hours, wondering and saying over the address to himself so that he shouldn't forget it, and just afore it was time to get up he fell into a peaceful slumber. His wife didn't get a wink, and she lay there trembling with passion to think 'ow she'd been done, and wondering 'ow she was to alter it.