a while, up I goes to th’ door, an’ knocks (for I were a gert, strong, strappin’, well-lookin’ figure o’ a man myself, in those days, d’ye see, an’ could give a good buffet an’ tak one tu), so up I goes to th’ door, an’ knocks wi’ my fist clenched, all ready (an’ a tidy, sizable fist it were in those days) but Lord! nobody answered, so, at last, I lifted the latch.”  Here the Ancient paused to draw a snuff-box from his pocket, with great deliberation, noting my awakened interest with a twinkling eye.

“Well?” I inquired.

“Well,” he continued slowly, “I lifted th’ latch, an’ give a push to the door, but it would only open a little way—­an inch, p’r’aps, an’ stuck.”  Here he tapped, and opened his snuff-box.

“Well?” I inquired again.

“Well,” he went on, “I give it a gert, big push wi’ my shoulder (I were a fine, strong chap in those days), an’, just as it flew open, comes another flash o’ lightnin’, an’ the fust thing I seen was—­a boot.”

“A boot!” I exclaimed.

“A boot as ever was,” nodded the Ancient, and took a pinch of snuff with great apparent gusto.

“Go on,” said I, “go on.”

“Oh!—­it’s a fine story, a fine story!” he chuckled.  “Theer bean’t many men o’ my age as ’as fund a ’ung man in a thunderstorm!  Well, as I tell ye, I seen a boot, likewise a leg, an’ theer were this ‘ere wanderin’ man o’ the roads a-danglin’ be’ind th’ door from a stapil—­look ye!” he exclaimed, rising with some little difficulty, and hobbling into the hut, “theer be th’ very stapil, so it be!” and he pointed up to a rusty iron staple that had been driven deep into the beam above the door.

“And why,” said I, “why did he hang himself?”

“Seein’ e’ ’ad no friends, and never told nobody—­nobody never knowed,” answered the old man, shaking his head, “but on that theer stapil ’e ’ung ‘isself, an’ on that theer stapil I fund ’im, on a stormy night sixty and six year ago come August.”

“You have a wonderful memory!” said I.

“Ay, to be sure; a wunnerful mem’ry, a wunnerful mem’ry!”

“Sixty and six years is an age,” said I.

“So it be,” nodded the Ancient.  “I were a fine young chap in those days, tall I were, an’ straight as a arrer, I be a bit different now.”

“Why, you are getting old,” said I.

“So ‘s t’ stapil yonder, but t’ stapil looks nigh as good as ever.”

“Iron generally wears better than flesh and blood,” said I; “it’s only natural.”

“Ay, but ’e can’t last forever,” said the Ancient, frowning, and shaking his head at the rusty staple.  “I’ve watched un, month in an’ month out, all these years, an’ seen un growin’ rustier an’ rustier.  I’ll last ‘ee out yet,’ I’ve said to un—­’e knows it—­’e ‘ve heerd me many an’ many a time.  ’I’ll last ‘ee out yet!’ I’ve said, an’ so I will, to—­’e can’t last forever an’ I be a vig’rus man—­a mortal vig’rus man—­bean’t I?”