“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.”

“This is fifty million times worse than pink rats,” ses Bill.  “I on’y wish it was a pink rat.”

“I tell you there is nothing there,” ses his wife.  “Look!”

Bill put his ’ead up and looked, and then ’e gave a dreadful scream and dived under the bed-clothes agin.

“Oh, well, ’ave it your own way, then,” ses his wife.  “If it pleases you to think there is a ghost there, and to go on talking to it, do so, and welcome.”

She turned over and pretended to go to sleep agin, and arter a minute or two Silas spoke agin in the same hollow voice.

“Bill!” he ses.

“Yes,” ses Bill, with a groan of his own.

“She can’t see me,” ses Silas, “and she can’t ’ear me; but I’m ’ere all right.  Look!”

“I ’ave looked,” ses Bill, with his ’ead still under the clothes.

“We was always pals, Bill, you and me,” ses Silas; “many a v’y’ge ’ave we had together, mate, and now I’m a-laying at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, and you are snug and ’appy in your own warm bed.  I ’ad to come to see you, according to promise, and over and above that, since I was drowned my eyes ’ave been opened.  Bill, you’re drinking yourself to death!”

“I—­I—­didn’t know it,” ses Bill, shaking all over.  “I’ll knock it—­off a bit, and—­thank you—­for—­w-w-warning me.  G-G-Good-by.”

“You’ll knock it off altogether,” ses Silas Winch, in a awful voice.  “You’re not to touch another drop of beer, wine, or spirits as long as you live.  D’ye hear me?”

“Not—­not as medicine?” ses Bill, holding the clothes up a bit so as to be more distinct.

“Not as anything,” ses Silas; “not even over Christmas pudding.  Raise your right arm above your ’ead and swear by the ghost of pore Silas Winch, as is laying at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, that you won’t touch another drop.”