“Bad?” screeched the old man—“worse’n bad it be, ah, a sight worse! Nobody never ’ad it so worse as oi, nowhen! Shook arl to liddle bits oi be——” “Why, then, let us haste to ‘The Acorn’ forthwith.” Thither they repaired in company, and found it to be a small, yet cheery-looking hedge-tavern set at a bend of the tree-shaded road and presided over by a large and cheery man remarkable for the width of his smile and a pair of huge, hairy arms; a man who greeted them cheerily and at whom Mr. Potter, in the act of aiding the Ancient One to earth, cocked an eyebrow and lightly caressed his left whisker; whereupon the cheery landlord nodded. “Aye, aye, Jarge!” quoth he. “Same time, I reckon?” “Near as mebbe, Ed’ard!” nodded Mr. Potter. “Wind doo sou’-westerly, Jarge?” “It be, Ben!” answered Mr. Potter, as they followed the cheery man into a sunny, sand-strewn tap. “Mr. Dumbrell,” said Sir John, “having regard to your ague, may I suggest——” “Ale!” snapped that Ancient Person. “I never drinks naum but ale, young man, ’cept, p’r’aps a mug o’ gumboo now an’ then when ’tis to be ’ad, but no sperrits for oi!” The cheery Ed’ard, having attended duly to their several wants, forthwith returned to smile at the road again. “Talking of spirits,” said Sir John as they sat, all four, with their foaming tankards before them, “ex-Corporal Robert Doubleday here tells me that he saw a ghost the other night——” “Well, what o’ that?” piped the Ancient One. “Theer be ’ostesses o’ ghostesses ’ereabouts in Sussex, I rackon. What the rabbits, young man! I du tell ’ee as I’ve seed ghostesses galore, wi’ corpse-candles, an’ willy-wipsies, aye, an’ fairieses afore noo! Wait till I’ve blowed the fob off’n my ale, an’ I’ll tell ’ee.” “Fairieses?” questioned Sir John. “Some folk do call ’em fairies, sir,” explained Mr. Potter. “Aye, young man,” cried Mr. Dumbrell, wiping his mouth, “fairieses—liddle bits o’ creeters bigger’n a squrrel an’ not so gurt as Mus’ Reynolds——” “’E means a fox, sir,” quoth the explanatory Potter, observing Sir John’s puzzled look. “’Old y’r tongue, Jarge, du!” snarled the old man. “Keep y’r mouth shet, Jarge, an’ gi’e me a chanct to spik, will ’ee? I be a bit oldish, mebbe, but I bean’t nowise doddlish!” “Not you, Gaffer, not you!” answered Mr. Potter soothingly. “Well, then, young man,” continued Mr. Dumbrell, “dappen ye sh’uld be a-walkin’ along-about the four-wents, Wilmington way, arter dark, you’d see the ghost o’ pore Tom Stickley as were shot ’longside o’ me whiles we was landin’ tubs over tu Cuckmere ’aven, one night thirty year agone an’ more! Pore Tom wears a sheet, ’e du, all mucked wi’ gore an’ gubber ... though why e’ should walk Wilmington way, I dunno.” “But this ghost, Mr. Dumbrell, wore a pair of horns—eh, Bob?” “Horns, indeed, sirs!” quoth Robert—“horns a yard wide, I’ll lay my oath, and all afire!”