“Why, to be sure it was,” I answered, “a Scotch piper, as I told you, and—­”

“Peter,” said the Ancient, tapping his snuff-box, “it weren’t no ghost, then—­ay or no.”

“No,” said I, “nothing but a—­”

“Peter!” said the Ancient, nodding solemnly, “Peter, I ’ates ye!” and, turning sharp about, he tottered away upon his stick.

“So—­that’s it!” said I, staring after the old man’s retreating figure.

“Why, ye see,” said George, somewhat diffidently, “ye see, Peter, Gaffer be so old!—­and all ’is friends be dead, and he’ve come to look on this ‘ere ghost as belongin’ to ’im a’most.  Loves to sit an’ tell about it, ’e do; it be all ’e’ve got left to live for, as ve might say, and now you’ve been and gone and said as theer bean’t no ghost arter all, d’ye see?”

“Ah, yes, I see,” I nodded, “I see.  But you don’t still, believe in this ghost, do you, George?”

“N-o-o-o—­not ’xactly,” answered George, hesitating upon the word, “can’t say as I believe ’xactly, and yet, Lord! ’ow should I know?”

“Then you do still believe in the ghost?”

“Why, y’ see, Peter, we do know as a man ’ung ’isself theer, ’cause Gaffer found un—­likewise I’ve heerd it scream—­but as for believin’ in it, since you say contrarywise—­why, ’ow should I know?”

“But why should I deny it, George; why should I tell you all of a Scotsman?”

“Why, y’ see, Peter,” said George, in his heavy way, “you be such a strange sort o’ chap!”

“George,” said I, “let us get back to work.”

Yet, in a little while, I set aside the hammer, and turned to the door.

“Peter, wheer be goin’?”

“To try and make my peace with the Ancient,” I answered, and forthwith crossed the road to “The Bull.”  But with my foot on the step I paused, arrested by the sound of voices and laughter within the tap, and, loudest of all, was the voice of the pseudo blacksmith, Job.

“If I were only a bit younger!” the Ancient was saying.  Now, peeping in through the casement, a glance at his dejected attitude, and the blatant bearing of the others, explained to me the situation then and there.

“Ah! but you ain’t,” retorted old Amos, “you ’m a old, old man an’ gettin’ older wi’ every tick o’ the clock, you be, an’ gettin’ mazed-like wi’ years.”

“Haw! haw!” laughed Job and the five or six others.

“Oh, you—­Job! if my b’y Simon was ’ere ’e’d pitch ’ee out into the road, so ’e would—­same as Black Jarge done,” quavered the Ancient.

“P’r’aps, Gaffer, p’r’aps!” returned Job, “but I sez again, I believe what Peter sez, an’ I don’t believe there never was no ghost at all.”

“Ay, lad, but I tell ’ee theer was—­I seed un!” cried the old man eagerly, “seed un wi’ these two eyes, many’s the time.  You, Joel Amos—­you’ve ‘eerd un a-moanin’ an’ a-groanin’—­you believe as I seed un, don’t ’ee now come?”