“I can see wot's coming,” ses Mrs. Morgan, turning red with excitement and pinching Joe's arm.
“I ses to myself,” ses Bill Flurry, “either that's a ghost, I ses or else it's Charlie—”
“Go on,” ses George Hatchard, as was sitting with 'is fists clinched on the table and 'is eyes wide open, staring at 'im.
“Pearce,” ses Bill Flurry.
You might 'ave heard a pin drop. They all sat staring at 'im, and then George Hatchard took out 'is handkerchief and 'eld it up to 'is face.
“But he was drownded in the Evening Star” ses Joe Morgan.
Bill Flurry didn't answer 'im. He poured out pretty near a tumbler of whisky and offered it to Mrs. Pearce, but she pushed it away, and, arter looking round in a 'elpless sort of way and shaking his 'ead once or twice, he finished it up 'imself.
“It couldn't 'ave been 'im,” ses George Hatchard, speaking through 'is handkerchief. “I can't believe it. It's too cruel.”
“I tell you it was 'im,” ses Bill. “He floated off on a spar when the ship went down, and was picked up two days arterwards by a bark and taken to New Zealand. He told me all about it, and he told me if ever I saw 'is wife to give her 'is kind regards.”
“Kind regards!” ses Joe Morgan, starting up. “Why didn't he let 'is wife know 'e was alive?”