What did Bunker get when he traded the child away?
Harry had always been of opinion that he got a sum of money down, and that he was now ashamed of the transaction, and would fain have it remain unknown. This solution accounted, or seemed to account, for his great wrath and agitation when the subject was mentioned. Out of a mischievous delight in making his uncle angry, Harry frequently alluded to this point; but the story of the houses was a better solution still. It accounted for Mr. Bunker's agitation as well as his wrath. But his wrath and his terror appeared to Harry to corroborate very strongly the old man's story. And the longer he thought about it the more strongly he believed it.
Harry asked his landlady whether, in her opinion, if Mr. Maliphant made a statement, that statement was to be accepted as true?
Mrs. Bormalack replied that as he never made any statement, except in reference to events long since things of the past, it was impossible for her to say whether they were true or not; that his memory was clean gone for things of the present—so that of to-day and yesterday he knew nothing; that his thoughts were always running on the old days; and that when he could be heard right through, without dropping his voice at all, he sometimes told very interesting and curious things. His board and lodging were paid for him by his grandson, a most respectable gentleman, and a dockmaster; and that as to the old man's business he had none, and had had none for many years, being clean forgotten—although he did go every day to his yard, and stayed there all day long.
Harry thought he would pay him another visit. Perhaps something more would be remembered.
He went there again in the morning.
The street, at the end of which was the yard, was as quiet as on the Sunday, the children being at school and the men at work. The great gates were closed and locked, but the small side-door was unlocked. When he opened it all the figureheads turned quickly and anxiously to look at him. At least Harry declares they did, and Spiritualists will readily believe him. Was he, they asked, going to take one of them away and stick it on the bow of a great ship, and send it up and down upon the face of the ocean to the four corners of the world. Ha! They were made for an active life. They pined away in this inactivity. A fig for the dangers of the deep! From Saucy Sal to Neptune they all asked the same question in the same hope. Harry shook his head, and they sighed sadly and resumed sadly their former positions, as they were, eyes front, waiting till night should fall and the old man should go, and they could talk with each other.
"This," thought Harry, "is a strange and ghostly place."
You know the old and creepy feeling caused by the presence, albeit unseen, of ghosts. One may feel it anywhere and at all times—in church, at a theatre, in bed at night—by broad daylight—in darkness or in twilight. This was in the sunshine of a bright December day—the last days of the year 1881 were singularly bright and gracious. The place was no dark chamber or gloomy vault, but a broad and open yard, cheerfully decorated with carved figureheads. Yet, even here, Harry experienced the touch of ghostliness. The place was so strange that it did not astonish him at all to see the old man suddenly appear in the door of his doll's house, waving his hand and smiling cheerily, as one who speeds the parting guest. The salutations were not intended for Harry, because Mr. Maliphant was not looking at him.
Presently he ceased gesticulating, became suddenly serious (as happens to one when his friend's back is turned, or he has vanished), and returned to his seat by the fire.