Poopy helped to accelerate their flight by giving vent to a cry of fear, and thereafter to a yell of delight, as, from her point of view, she recognized the well-known outline of Corrie’s figure clearly defined against the sky.  She ran after them in frantic haste; but she might as well have chased a couple of wildcats.  Either terror is gifted with better wings than hope, or males are better runners than females.  Perhaps both propositions are true; but certain it is that Poopy soon began to perceive that the succor which had appeared so suddenly was about to vanish almost as quickly.

In this new dilemma, the girl once more availed herself of her slight knowledge of the place, and made a detour which enabled her to shoot ahead of the fugitives and intercept them in one of the narrowest parts of the mountain gorge.  Here, instead of using her natural voice, she conceived that the likeliest way of making her terrified friends understand who she was, would be to shout with all the strength of her lungs.  Accordingly, she planted herself suddenly in the center of their path, just as the two came tearing blindly round a corner of rock, and set up a series of yells, the nature of which utterly beggars description.

The result was, that, with one short wild cry of renewed horror, Bumpus and Corrie turned sharp round and fled in the opposite direction.

There is no doubt whatever that they would have succeeded in ultimately escaping from this pertinacious ghost, and poor Poopy would have had to make the best of her way to Sandy Cove alone, but for the fortunate circumstance that Corrie fell; and being only a couple of paces in advance of his companion, Bumpus fell over him.

The ghost took advantage of this to run forward, crying out, “Corrie!  Corrie!  Corrie!—­it’s me! me!  ME!” with all her might.

“Eh!  I do believe it knows my name!” cried the boy, scrambling to his feet, and preparing to renew his flight; but Bumpus laid his heavy hand on his collar, and held him fast.

“Wot!  Did it speak?”

“Yes; listen!  Oh dear!  Come,—­fly!”

Instead of flying, the seaman heaved a deep sigh; and, sitting down on a rock, took out a reddish brown cotton handkerchief, wherewith he wiped his forehead.

“My boy,” said he, still panting; “it ain’t a ghost.  No ghost wos ever known to speak.  They looks, an’ they runs, an’ they yells, an’ they vanishes, but they never speaks; d’ye see?  I told ye it was a sciencrific dolusion; though, I’m bound for to confess, I never heerd o’ von o’ them critters speakin’, no more than the ghosts.  Howsomedever, that’s wot it is.”

Corrie, who still hesitated, and held himself in readiness to bolt at a moment’s notice, suddenly cried: 

“Why!  I do believe it’s—­No; it can’t be—­yes—­I say, it’s Poopy.”

“Wot’s Poopy?” inquired the seaman, in some anxiety.

“What! don’t you know Poopy, Alice’s black maid, who keeps her company, and looks after her; besides’ doin’ her and ‘undoin’ her (as she calls it), night and morning, and putting her to bed?  Hooray!  Poopy, my lovely black darling; where have you come from?  You’ve frightened Bumpus here nearly out of his wits.  I do believe he’d have bin dead by this time, but for me!”