English literature -- England -- Lancashire; Legends -- England -- Lancashire
"Dick's a starin' gowk, and a coward too. I'se warrant there waur
plenty o' room 'twixt his carcase and the wa'. That I'd bin there
i'stead! There shouldn't ha' bin room to cram a herrin' tail atween me
an' the ghost's substance. I would ha' hedged him up thus, an' then
master ghost, taken aback, says, 'Friend, by yere sweet leave I would
pass;' but I make out elbows, and arms this'n, facing till him so.
Help! murder!"
This sudden change in the voice and attitude of the speaker, this
sudden exhalation of his courage, unfortunately arose from the parties
having, in the heat and interest of the discourse, turned their backs
to the haunted entrance, and, so intent was Davy in accommodating the
action to the valiant tenor of his speech, that it was only on
turning round, for the purpose of showing to his companion the way in
which he would have disputed a passage with the ghost, that he was
aware for the first time of the presence of that terrible thing, and
within a very few inches too of his own person. They stayed not for
any further exemplification of this theory of ghost-laying, but in an
instant were beyond observation, bounding over the beach, nor once
looking behind them until safe in their little hut, and the door
fastened against the fearful intruder. Davy, being foremost in the
race, sat down, followed by his companion George, who, maugre his
great apprehensions, could not forbear laughing heartily at the sudden
melting away of the big-mouthed valour of this cowardly boaster.
"Praised be our lady of Furness," said the merry taunter, with many
interruptions from laughter and want of breath; "thy heels are as glib
as thy tongue: for which--oh, oh! I am breathed--blown--dispossessed
of my birthright, free quaffing o' the air. Ha, ha! I cannot laugh.
Oh! what a mouth didst thou make at old blacksleeves. Gaping so, I
wonder he mistook not thy muzzle for one of the vents into his old
quarters. A pretty gull thee be'st, to swallow yon black porpoise."
"I tell thee, messmate," returned the other, gravely, "thou hast
miss'd thy tack. It waur but a slip, maybe a kin' of a sudden start
which took me, as they say, by the nape. I jumped back, I own--a foul
accident, by which he took advantage. He comes behind me, thou sees,
and with a skip 'at would have seated him upo' the topmost perch o'
the castle, he lights whack, thump, fair upo' my shoulders. I ran but
to shake the whoreson black slug fro' my carcase. Saints ha' mercy,
but his legs waur colder than a wet sheet. I soon unshipp'd my cargo,
though--I tumbled him into the sea, made a present of old blacksleeves
to the fishes!"
"Thou lying chub," said George, angrily, "did not I watch thee? Why,
thou cub, thou cormorant, thou maker of long lies and quick legs,
didst not o'ershoot me, ay, by some fathoms? I followed hard i' thy
wake, but I see'd nought of all this bull-scuddering of thine. Faith,
but thou didst ply thy courses with a wet sail!"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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