to think there is a ghost there, and to go on talking to it, do so, and
welcome.”
She turned over and pretended to go to sleep agin, and arter a minute or
two Silas spoke agin in the same hollow voice.
“Bill!” he ses.
“Yes,” ses Bill, with a groan of his own.
“She can't see me,” ses Silas, “and she can't 'ear me; but I'm 'ere all
right. Look!”
“I 'ave looked,” ses Bill, with his 'ead still under the clothes.
“We was always pals, Bill, you and me,” ses Silas; “many a v'y'ge 'ave
we had together, mate, and now I'm a-laying at the bottom of the Pacific
Ocean, and you are snug and 'appy in your own warm bed. I 'ad to come
to see you, according to promise, and over and above that, since I was
drowned my eyes 'ave been opened. Bill, you're drinking yourself to
death!”
“I—I—didn't know it,” ses Bill, shaking all over. “I'll knock it—off a
bit, and—thank you—for—w-w-warning me. G-G-Good-by.”
“You'll knock it off altogether,” ses Silas Winch, in a awful voice.
“You're not to touch another drop of beer, wine, or spirits as long as
you live. D'ye hear me?”
“Not—not as medicine?” ses Bill, holding the clothes up a bit so as to
be more distinct.
“Not as anything,” ses Silas; “not even over Christmas pudding. Raise
your right arm above your 'ead and swear by the ghost of pore Silas
Winch, as is laying at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, that you won't
touch another drop.”
Bill Burtenshaw put 'is arm up and swore it.
Then 'e took 'is arm in agin and lay there wondering wot was going to
'appen next.
“If you ever break your oath by on'y so much as a teaspoonful,” ses
Silas, “you'll see me agin, and the second time you see me you'll die as
if struck by lightning. No man can see me twice and live.”
Bill broke out in a cold perspiration all over. “You'll be careful,
won't you, Silas?” he ses. “You'll remember you 'ave seen me once, I
mean?”
“And there's another thing afore I go,” ses Silas. “I've left a widder,
and if she don't get 'elp from some one she'll starve.”
“Pore thing,” ses Bill. “Pore thing.”
“If you 'ad died afore me,” ses Silas, “I should 'ave looked arter your
good wife—wot I've now put in a sound sleep—as long as I lived.”
Bill didn't say anything.
“I should 'ave given 'er fifteen shillings a week,” ses Silas.
“'Ow much?” ses Bill, nearly putting his 'ead up over the clothes, while
'is wife almost woke up with surprise and anger.
“Fifteen shillings,” ses Silas, in 'is most awful voice. “You'll save
that over the drink.”
“I—I'll go round and see her,” ses Bill. “She might be one o' these
'ere independent—”
“I forbid you to go near the place,” ses Silas. “Send it by post every
week; 15 Shap Street will find her. Put your arm up and swear it; same
as you did afore.”
Bill did as 'e was told, and then 'e lay and trembled, as Silas gave
three more awful groans.
“Farewell, Bill,” he ses. “Farewell. I am going back to my bed at the
bottom o' the sea. So long as you keep both your oaths I shall stay
there. If you break one of 'em or go to see my pore wife I shall appear
agin. Farewell! Farewell! Farewell!”
Bill said “Good-by,” and arter a long silence he ventured to put an eye
over the edge of the clothes and discovered that the ghost 'ad gone. He
lay awake for a couple o' hours, wondering and saying over the address
to himself so that he shouldn't forget it, and just afore it was time to
get up he fell into a peaceful slumber. His wife didn't get a wink, and
she lay there trembling with passion to think 'ow she'd been done, and
wondering 'ow she was to alter it.
Bill told 'er all about it in the morning; and then with tears in his
eyes 'e went downstairs and emptied a little barrel o' beer down the
sink. For the fust two or three days 'e went about with a thirst that
he'd ha' given pounds for if 'e'd been allowed to satisfy it, but arter
a time it went off, and then, like all teetotallers, 'e began to run
down drink and call it pison.
'With Tears in his Eyes 'e Emptied a Little Barrel O' Beer Down the
Sink.'
The fust thing 'e did when 'e got his money on Friday was to send off
a post-office order to Shap Street, and Mrs. Burtenshaw cried with
rage and 'ad to put it down to the headache. She 'ad the headache every
Friday for a month, and Bill, wot was feeling stronger and better than
he 'ad done for years, felt quite sorry for her.
By the time Bill 'ad sent off six orders she was worn to skin and bone
a'most a-worrying over the way Silas Winch was spending her money. She
dursn't undeceive Bill for two reasons: fust of all, because she didn't
want 'im to take to drink agin; and secondly, for fear of wot he might
do to 'er if 'e found out 'ow she'd been deceiving 'im.
She was laying awake thinking it over one night while Bill was sleeping
peaceful by her side, when all of a sudden she 'ad an idea. The more she
thought of it the better it seemed; but she laid awake for ever so long
afore she dared to do more than think. Three or four times she turned
and looked at Bill and listened to 'im breathing, and then, trembling
all over with fear and excitement, she began 'er little game.
“He did send it,” she ses, with a piercing scream. “He did send it.”
“W-w-wot's the matter?” ses Bill, beginning to wake up.
Mrs. Burtenshaw didn't take any notice of 'im.
“He did send it,” she ses, screaming agin. “Every Friday night reg'lar.
Oh, don't let 'im see you agin.”
Bill, wot was just going to ask 'er whether she 'ad gone mad, gave a
awful 'owl and disappeared right down in the middle o' the bed.
“There's some mistake,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw, in a voice that could ha'
been 'eard through arf-a-dozen beds easy. “It must ha' been lost in the
post. It must ha' been.”
She was silent for a few seconds, then she ses, “All right,” she ses,
“I'll bring it myself, then, by hand every week. No, Bill sha'n't come;
I'll promise that for 'im. Do go away; he might put his 'ead up at any
moment.”
She began to gasp and sob, and Bill began to think wot a good wife he
'ad got, when he felt 'er put a couple of pillers over where she judged
his 'ead to be, and hold 'em down with her arm.
“Thank you, Mr. Winch,” she ses, very loud. “Thank you. Good-by,
Good-by.”
She began to quieten down a bit, although little sobs, like wimmen use
when they pretend that they want to leave off crying but can't, kept
breaking out of 'er. Then, by and by, she quieted down altogether and a
husky voice from near the foot of the bed ses: “Has it gorn?”
“Oh, Bill,” she ses, with another sob, “I've seen the ghost!”
“Has it gorn?” ses Bill, agin.
“Yes, it's gorn,” ses his wife, shivering. “Oh, Bill, it stood at the
foot of the bed looking at me, with its face and 'ands all shiny white,
and damp curls on its forehead. Oh!”
Bill came up very slow and careful, but with 'is eyes still shut.
“His wife didn't get the money this week,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw; “but as
he thought there might be a mistake somewhere he appeared to me instead
of to you. I've got to take the money by hand.”
“Yes, I heard,” ses Bill; “and mind, if you should lose it or be robbed
of it, let me know at once. D'ye hear? At once!”
“Yes, Bill,” ses 'is wife.
They lay quiet for some time, although Mrs. Burtenshaw still kept
trembling and shaking; and then Bill ses. “Next time a man tells you he
'as seen a ghost, p'r'aps you'll believe in 'im.”
Mrs. Burtenshaw took out the end of the sheet wot she 'ad stuffed in 'er
mouth when 'e began to speak.
“Yes, Bill,” she ses.
Bill Burtenshaw gave 'er the fifteen shillings next morning and every
Friday night arterwards; and that's 'ow it is that, while other wimmen
'as to be satisfied looking at new hats and clothes in the shop-winders,
Mrs. Burtenshaw is able to wear 'em.
051 (53K)
End of Project Gutenberg's Sailor's Knots (Entire Collection), by W.W.
Jacobs