"As for the blunderbust, sir, there's no call to be afeard. Tes on'y loaded wi' shot an' a silver shillin'. I heerd tell that over to Tresawsen, wan time, they had purty trouble wi' a lerrupin' big hare, sir. Neither man nor hound cud cotch her; an' as for bullets, her tuk in bullets like so much ballast. Well, sir, th' ould Squire were out wi' his gun wan day, an' 'way to track thicky hare, roun' an' roun', for up ten mile; an' the more lead he fired, the better plaised her seemed. 'Darn et!' says the old Squire at las'. ''Tes witchcraf; I'll try a silver bullet.' So he pulls out a crown-piece an' hammers 'un into a slug to fit hes gun. He'd no sooner loaded than out pops the hare agen, not twenty yards off, an' right 'cross the path. Th' ould man blazed away, an' this time hit her sure 'nuff: hows'ever, her warn't too badly wounded to nip roun' the knap o' the hill an' out o' sight. 'I'll ha' 'ee!' cries the Squire; an' wi' that pulls hot foot roun' the hill. An' there, sir, clucked in under a bit o' rock, an' pantin' for dear life, were ould Mally Skegg. I tell 'ee, sir, the Squire made no more to do, but 'way to run, an' niver stopped till he were safe home to Tresawsen. That's so. Mally were a witch, like her mother afore her; an' the best proof es, her wore a limp arter this to the day o' her death." Mr. Fogo roused himself from his abstraction to ask-- "Do you seriously believe it was a ghost that I saw last night?" "That's as may be. Ef 'taint, 'tes folks as has no bus'ness hereabouts. I've heerd tell as you'm wi'in the law ef you hails mun dree times afore firin'. That's what I means to do, anyway. As for ghostes, I do believe, an' I don't believe." "What? That a man's spirit comes back after death to trouble folks?" "I dunno 'bout sperrit: but I heerd a tale wance 'bout a man's remains as gi'ed a peck o' trouble arter death. 'Twas ould Commodore Trounce as the remains belonged to, an' 'tes a queer yarn, ef you niver heerd et afore." Caleb looked at his master. Mr. Fogo had not yet told the story of his call at "The Bower"; but Caleb saw that he was suffering, and had planned this story as a diversion. The bait took. Mr. Fogo looked up expectant, and lit a fresh pipe. So Caleb settled himself in his corner of the window-seat, and, still keeping an eye on the old schooner, began-- "THE COMMODORE'S PROGRESS. "You've heerd me spake, sir, o' Joe Bonaday, him as made poetry 'long wi' me wan time when lying becalmed off Ilfrycombe?" "Certainly."