"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?" "Wonderfully!" said I. "An' so strong as a bull?" "To be sure." "An' t' stapil can't last much longer—eh, maister?—so old an' rusty as 'e be?" "One would hardly think so." "Not so long as a tur'ble vig'rus man, like I be?" he inquired, with a certain wistful appeal in his eyes. "No," I answered impulsively. "I knowed it—I knowed it," he chuckled, feebly brandishing his stick, "such a poor old stapil as 'tis, all eat up wi' rust. Every time I come 'ere a-gatherin' watercress, I come in an' give un a look, an' watch un rustin' away, an' rustin' away; I'll see un go fust, arter all, so I will!" and, with another nod at the staple, he turned, and hobbled out into the sunshine. And seeing how, despite his brave showing, he labored to carry the heavy basket, I presently took it from him, disregarding his protests, and set off by his side; yet, as we went, I turned once to look back at the deserted hut. "You 'm thinkin' 'tis a tur'ble bad place at night?" said the old man. "On the contrary," I answered, "I was thinking it might suit a homeless man like me very well indeed." "D'ye mean—to live there?" exclaimed the Ancient. "Yes," said I. "Then you bean't afraid o' the ghost?" "No," I answered. "P'r'aps you be one o' they fules as think theer bean't no ghosts?"