Then up rose Farmer Tickle, very red in the face, and said: “Mr. Lecturer: You’ve said that there be no such things as spirits and ghosts. I’ll tell’y something. I was coming over Broadbury one night, and somehow or other I lost my way. I was afraid of falling into the bog—you know all about that bog, don’t’y, by the old Roman castle? There was a gentleman—a sort of traveller, in my recollection—was driving over Broadbury in a light tax-cart, and suddenly he went into the bog, and his horse and cart were swallowed up, and he had much ado to save himself. Well, he didn’t want to lose his tax-cart and harness, for the tax-cart contained bales of cloth and the harness was new; so he went to the blacksmith at the cross, and got him to come there with his man and grappling-irons. They let the irons down into the bog, and presently they got hold of something and began to draw it up. It was a horse; and they threw it on the side and said, ‘There, sir, now you have your horse.’—‘No,’ answered he, looking hard at it, ‘this is a hunter, with saddle and stirrups. Let down the irons again.’ So they felt about once more, and presently they pulled up another horse and laid him on the side. ‘There, sir, is this yours?’ sez the blacksmith; ‘he’s in gig-harness all right.’—‘No,’ sez the traveller; ‘my horse was a dapple, and this is a grey. Down with the irons again.’ This time they cries out, ‘Yo, heave-oh! we’ve got hold of the tax-cart!’ But when they pulled ’un up it was a phaeton. So they let their grappling-irons down again, and presently up came another horse, and this was in harness; but sez the traveller, ‘He’s not mine, for mine was a mare. Try again, my fine fellows.’ Next as came up had no harness at all on; and the next had blinkers with Squire G——’s crest on them. Well, they worked all day, and they got up a dozen horses and three carriages, but they never found the traveller’s tax-cart and the dapple mare. “But, Lor’ bless me! I’ve been wandering again on Broadbury, and now I must return to the point. Knowing what I did about the bog, I was a bit frighted of falling into her. Presently I came to a bit of old quarry and rock, and I thought there might be some one about, so I shouted at the top of my voice, ‘Farmer Tickle has lost his way.’ Well, just then a voice from among the stones answered me, and said, ‘Who? who?’—‘Farmer Tickle of X——, I say.’ Then the voice answered again, asking: ‘Who? who? who?’—‘Are ye hard of hearing?’ I shouted. ‘I say tez Farmer Tickle, as live in the old rummling farm of Southcot in X—— parish.’ As imperent as possible again the voice asked: ‘Who? who? who?’ ’Tez Farmer Tickle, I tell’y!’ I shouted; ‘and if you axes again I’ll come along of you with my stick.’—‘Who? who? who?’ I ran to the rocks and beat about with my stick; and then a great white thing rushed out——” “It was an owl,” said the lecturer scornfully.