“Ay, that she be, that she be.”

“Why, then, Simon must be your son.”

“Son as ever was!” nodded the old man, “and a goodish son ’e be to—­oh, I’ve seen worse.”

“And now,” added Simon, “come in, and you shall taste as fine a jug of ale as there be in all Kent.”

“Wait,” said the old man, laying his hand upon my arm, “I’ve took to you, young chap, took to you amazin’; what might your name be?”

“Peter,” I answered.

“A good name, a fine name,” nodded the old man.

“Peter—­Simon,” said he, glancing from one to the other of us.  “Simon—­Peter; minds me o’ the disciple of our blessed Lord, it du; a fine name be Peter.”

So Peter I became to him thenceforth, and to the whole village.

CHAPTER XXVI

WHEREIN I LEARN MORE CONCERNING THE GHOST OF THE RUINED HUT

And after the Ancient and Simon and I had, very creditably, emptied the jug between us, I rose to depart.

“Peter,” said the Ancient, “wheer be goin’?”

“Home!” said I.

“And wheer be that?”

“The cottage in the Hollow,” said I.

“What—­th’ ’aunted cottage?” he cried, staring.

“Yes,” I nodded; “from what I saw of it, I think, with a little repairing, it might suit me very well.”

“But the ghost?” cried the old man; “have ye forgot the ghost?”

“Why, I never heard of a ghost really harming any one yet,” I answered.

“Peter,” said Simon, quietly, “I wouldn’t be too sure o’ that.  I wouldn’t go a-nigh the place, myself; once is enough for me.”

“Simon,” said I, “what do you mean by ’once’?”

Now when I asked him this, Simon breathed hard, and shuffled uneasily in his chair.

“I mean, Peter, as I’ve heerd un,” he replied slowly.

“Heard him!” I repeated incredulously; “you?  Are you sure?”

“Sure as death, Peter.  I’ve heerd un a-shriekin’ and a-groanin’ to ’isself, same as Gaffer ’as, and lots of others.  Why, Lord bless ’ee! theer be scarce a man in these parts but ’as ’eerd um one time or another.”

“Ay—­I’ve ’eerd un, and seen un tu!” croaked the Ancient excitedly.  “A gert, tall think ‘e be, wi’ a ’orn on ’is ’ead, and likewise a tail; some might ha’ thought ‘t was the Wanderin’ Man o’ the Roads as I found ‘angin’ on t’ stapil—­some on ’em du, but I knowed better—­I knowed ’t were Old Nick ’isself, all flame, and brimstone, an’ wi’ a babby under ’is arm!”

“A baby?” I repeated.

“A babby as ever was,” nodded the Ancient.

“And you say you have heard it too, Simon?” said I.

“Ay,” nodded the Innkeeper; “I went down into th’ ’Oller one evenin’—­’bout six months ago, wi’ Black Jarge, for we ’ad a mind to knock th’ owd place to pieces, and get rid o’ the ghost that way.  Well, Jarge ups wi’ ’is ’ammer, and down comes the rotten old door wi’ a crash.  Jarge ’ad strung up ’is ’ammer for another blow when, all at once, theer comes a scream.”  Here Simon shivered involuntarily, and glanced uneasily over his shoulder, and round the room.