“’Orns!” exclaimed the Ancient One scornfully. “I’ve seed ’em wi’ ’orns a-shootin’ out sparks an’ flame afore now, I ’ave! ’Orns? If ye was to go up-along Windover, aye, or Furrel at midnight—which nobody don’t never nowise du—you’d see more on ’em wi’ ’orns than ye could count in a month o’ Sundays, aye, that ye would!” “Allus s’posin’ as they’ve got the ‘sight,’ gaffer!” added Mr. Potter. “Some ’as the gift o’ seem’ an’ some ’asn’t!” “Do you believe in ghosts, Potter?” inquired Sir John. “Why, sir, I do—an’ then again—I doan’t. Ye see, sir, it do ’appen as I’ve never ackcherly seen one, prexactly, as ye might say, but that be because I ain’t got the gift o’ seein’, but I ain’t consequently agoin’ for to deny the fac’.” “I dunno,” quoth the Ancient One thoughtfully—“I dunno as Windover bean’t a more likely plaace to see ’em than Furrel, for it were on Windover as pore young ’Obden was done to death, an’ the saame wik ’is ghost ’peared tu James Sturton somewheres over by the Long Man an’ nigh fritted ’e out o’ ’is moind.” “But,” said Sir John, “this particular ghost, considering his horns, would seem to be the very devil——” “Hesh—hesh!” shrilled the Ancient One. “Doan’t ’ee knoaw as _’e_ aren’t to be light-spoke on? _’E_ doan’t like it no’ow! An’ if so be as _’e_ be come fur Mus’ Sturton, I dunno as it bean’t about toime. An’ now my ale be finished an’ I bean’t agoin’ to ’ave no more—an’ Jarge bean’t neither! And, look’ee, Mus’ Robert,” he admonished, wagging bony finger fiercely in the ex-corporal’s face, “if ye should hap’ t’ see my granddarter Ann, doan’t ’ee say naun to her about this here liddle drop o’ ale, mind, or she’ll be givin’ me a middlin’ dish o’ tongues, I rackon! Come on, Jarge, an’ ’elp me inter the cart.” This intricate manœuvre being successfully accomplished, they jogged on together in company; and Sir John noticed that Mr. Potter possessed a sweet though singularly penetrating whistle, and that the tune he rendered, a simple, country air, was always the same. And Sir John further noticed that Mr. Potter whistled only when in the neighbourhood of certain cottages, and also that so soon as they approached these habitations they would behold a man leaning pensively over gate, or in doorway, or busied in the garden, which men, glancing at Mr. Potter, would always behold him in the act of smoothing his neatly trimmed, left side-whisker; whereupon they would nod and flourish hand, fork, mattock or hoe, as the case might be, with a cheery hail of: “Aye, aye, Jarge!” At last, reaching a place where the ways divided, Mr. Potter pulled up his horse. “We be a-goin’ round Glynde way, sir,” he explained. “If you should hap’ along to Alfriston, I’d be proud to ’ave ye drop in on Potter, sir.” “Thank you, Mr. Potter, I certainly will,” answered Sir John. “Aye, an’ you too, likewise, Mus’ Robert.”