“And were the movements of her legs and arms natural?”

“No j’ints, Master Blake.  She looked like a wooden figger without proper j’ints!  Perhaps she ’ad a few wire pins in her ’natomy; but no j’ints proper.”

“So you believe in this ghost?”

“Can’t help it, yer honour.”

“Simon, I don’t.  There’s some deep-laid scheme on foot somewhere; and I think I can guess who’s working it.”

Simon started.  “You don’t think that ‘ere waccinatin’, sumnamblifyin’ willain ’ev got the thing in ’and?”

I didn’t speak, but looked keenly at him.

At first he did nothing but stare vacantly, but presently a look of intelligence flashed into his eyes.  Then he gave a shrug, as if he was disgusted with himself, which was followed by an expression of grim determination.

“Master Blake,” he said solemnly, “it’s that waccinatin’ process as hev done it.  Simon Slowden couldn’t hev bin sich a nincompoop if he hadn’t bin waccinated ‘gainst whoopin’ cough, measles, and small-pox.  Yer honour,” he continued, “after I wur waccinated I broke out in a kind of rash all over, and that ’ere rash must have robbed me of my senses; but I’m blowed—­There, I can’t say fairer nor that.”

“Why, what do you think?”

“I daren’t tell you, yer honour, for fear I’ll make another mistake.  I thowt, sur, as it would take a hangel with black wings to nick me like this ‘ere, and now I’ve bin done by somebody; but it’s the waccinatin’, yer honour—­it’s the waccination.  In the Proverbs of Job we read, ’fool and his money soon parted,’ and so we can see ‘ow true the teachin’ is to-day.”

“But what is to be done, Simon?”

Simon shook his head, and then said solemnly, “I’m away from my bearin’s, sur.  I thought when I wur done the last time it should be the last time.  It wur in this way, sur.  I was in the doctor’s service as waccinated me.  Says he, when he’d done, ’Simon, you’ll never have small-pox now.’  ‘Think not?’ says I.  ‘Never,’ says he; and when Susan the ’ousemaid heard on it, she says, ‘I am so glad, Simon.’  Then, says I, ’Susan, when people are married they’re converted into one flesh.  That’s scripter.  You get married to me,’ says I, ’and you’ll be kept free from small-pox, without goin’ threw this yer willifyin’ process.’  Wi’ that she looks at me, and she says, ’You are purty, and I’ll try you for three months; if you don’t get small-pox in that time, why then—­we’ll talk about it.’  So I says, ’Say yes at once, Susan.  The doctor says I can’t get it, so there’s no sort o’ fear.’  I wur young and simple then, and thowt doctors never made a mistake.  Well, sur, in two months more I were down wi’ small-pox, and when I got up again I wur a sight to behold.  As soon as I wur fit to be seen I went to Susan to git a mite o’ comfort, and then I see ‘er a-courtin’ wi’ the coachman.  And I says to myself, ‘Simon Slowden,’ I says, ’this yer is the last time you must be ever taken in;’ and now I’m right mad that I should ’a bin licked in this yer way.”