“He! he!” chuckled Old Amos, “I don’t know if I du, Gaffer—­ye see you ‘m gettin’ that old—­”

“But I did—­I did—­oh, you chaps, I tell ’ee I did!”

“You ‘m gettin’ old, Gaffer,” repeated Amos, dwelling upon the theme with great unction, “very, very old—­”

“But so strong as a bull, I be!” added the Ancient, trying manfully to steady the quaver in his voice.

“Haw! haw!” laughed Job and the others, while Old Amos chuckled shrilly again.

“But I tell ’ee I did see un, I—­I see’d un plain as plain,” quavered the Ancient, in sudden distress.  “Old Nick it were, wi’ ‘orns, an’ a tail.”

“Why, Peter told us ‘twere only a Scottish man wi’ a bagpipe,” returned Job.

“Ay, for sure,” nodded Old Amos, “so ’e did.”

“A lie, it be—­a lie, a lie!” cried the Ancient, “’twere Old Nick, I see un—­plain as I see you.”

“Why, ye see, you ‘m gettin’ dre’fful old an’ ’elpless, Gaffer,” chuckled Old Amos again, “an’ your eyes plays tricks wi’ you.”

“Ah, to be sure they do!” added Job; whereupon Old Amos chuckled so much that he was taken by a violent fit of coughing.

“Oh! you chaps, you as I’ve seen grow up from babbies—­aren’t theer one o’ ye to tak’ the old man’s word an’ believe as I seen un?” The cracked old voice sounded more broken than usual, and I saw a tear crawling slowly down the Ancient’s furrowed cheek.  Nobody answered, and there fell a silence broken only by the shuffle and scrape of heavy boots and the setting down of tankards.

“Why, ye see, Gaffer,” said Job at last, “theer’s been a lot o’ talk o’ this ‘ere ghost, an’ some ’as even said as they ’eerd it, but, come to think on it, nobody’s never laid eyes on it but you, so—­”

“There you are wrong, my fellow,” said I, stepping into the room.  “I also have seen it.”

“You?” exclaimed Job, while half-a-dozen pairs of eyes stared at me in slow wonderment.

“Certainly I have.”

“But you said as it were a Scotchman, wi’ a bagpipe, I heerd ye—­we all did.”

“And believed it—­like fools!”

“Peter!” cried the Ancient, rising up out of his chair, “Peter, do ’ee mean it?”

“To be sure I do.”

“Do ’ee mean it were a ghost, Peter, do ’ee?”

“Why, of course it was,” I nodded, “a ghost, or the devil himself, hoof, horns, tail, and all—­to say nothing of the fire and brimstone.”

“Peter,” said the Ancient, straightening his bent old back proudly, “oh, Peter!—­tell ’em I’m a man o’ truth, an’ no liar—­tell ’em, Peter.”

“They know that,” said I; “they know it without my telling them, Ancient.”

“But,” said Job, staring at me aghast, “do ’ee mean to say as you live in a place as is ’aunted by the—­devil ’isself?”

“Oh, Lord bless ’ee!” cried the old man, laying his hand upon my arm, “Peter don’t mind Old Nick no more ’n I do—­Peter aren’t afeard of ’im.  ’Cause why?  ’Cause ’e ’ave a clean ’eart, ’ave Peter.  You don’t mind Old Nick, do ’ee, lad?