“Tak’ a pinch wi’ me, Peter.”

“No, thank you, Ancient.”

“Come, ’twould be a wonnerful thing to tell as I’d took snuff out o’ my very own box wi’ a man as ‘ad fou’t wi’ the devil —­come—­tak’ a pinch, Peter,” he pleaded.  Whereupon, to please him, I did so, and immediately fell most violently a-sneezing.

“And,” pursued the old man when the paroxysm was over, “did ye see ’is ‘orns, Peter, an’ ’is—­”

“Why, no, Ancient; you see, he happened to be wearing a bell-crowned hat and a long coat.”

“A ‘at an’ coat!” said the old man in a disappointed tone—­“a ’at, Peter?”

“Yes,” I nodded.

“To be sure, the Scripters say as ‘e goeth up an’ down like a ravening lion seekin’ whom ’e may devour.”

“Yes,” said I, “but more often, I think, like a fine gentleman!”

“I never heerd tell o’ the devil in a bell-crowned ’at afore, but p’r’aps you ‘m right, Peter—­tak’ another pinch o’ snuff.”

“No more,” said I, shaking my head.

“Why, it’s apt to ketch you a bit at first, but, Lord!  Peter, for a man as ‘as fou’t wi’ the devil—­”

“One pinch is more than enough, Ancient.”

“Oh, Peter, ’tis a wonnerful thing as you should be alive this day!”

“And yet, Ancient, many a man has fought the devil before now and lived—­nay, has been the better for it.”

“Maybe, Peter, maybe, but not on sech a tur’ble wild night as last night was.”  Saying which, the old man nodded emphatically and, rising, hobbled to the door; yet there he turned and came back again.  “I nigh forgot, Peter, I have noos for ye.”

“News?”

“Noos as ever was—­noos as’ll surprise ye, Peter.”

“Well?” I inquired.

“Well, Peter, Black Jarge be ‘took’ again.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“Oh!  I knowed ’twould come—­I knowed ’e couldn’t last much longer.  I says to Simon, day afore yesterday it were, ‘Simon,’ I says, ’mark my words, ‘e’ll never last the month out—­no.’”

“How did it happen, Ancient?”

“Got tur’ble drunk, ’e did, over to Cranbrook—­throwed Mr. Scrope, the Beadle, over the churchyard wall—­knocked down Jeremy Tullinger, the Watchman, an’ then—­went to sleep.  While ’e were asleep they managed, cautious-like, to tie ‘is legs an’ arms, an’ locked ’im up, mighty secure, in the vestry.  ’Ows’ever, when ’e woke up ‘e broke the door open, an’ walked out, an’ nobody tried to stop ’im—­not a soul, Peter.”

“And when was all this?”

“Why, that’s the very p’int,” chuckled the Ancient, “that’s the wonnerful part of it, Peter.  It all ’appened on Sat’day night, day afore yesterday as ever was—­the very same day as I says to Simon, ’mark my words, ‘e won’t last the month out.’”

“And where is he now?”

“Nobody knows, but theer’s them as says they see ‘im makin’ for Sefton Woods.”  Hereupon, breakfast done, I rose, and took my hat.