The Argosy — page 56: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Five Mr. Fyttons. 43 Great precautions were observed in our proceedings when we started from home. The country round was carefully inspected from the house-top, and, finding the coast apparently clear, we made off towards our destination in a dejected manner, turning wary eyes on every side. Slanter carried the materials, as we had determined to have two days’ more work at the north porch of the house. When engaged at our work, Sheppard used to come slowly in and out of the house, to chat and gossip as was his wont. ‘Tale after tale of ghostly and awful visions he had seen, of noises and foot- steps that he had heard, came following one another in one unbroken flow. To-day he was especially garrulous. “Yes,” he said, ‘‘ but the most unkind thing as ever happened to I, was when them pistol shots went off, and I got smothered in blood. ’Twur in that autumn when the front chimney stacks fell.” “Well?” said I. ** Well, it were autumn, and it were near midnight, and black as pitch, when as we was a lying in bed, and the wind a howling round— bang—bang—goes off a lot of pistols, and then bang again. There was a crashing fall, and all war quiet again. Well, I lay and trembled, but my old ’oman, she ups and lights a candle, and up- stairs she goes with the poker (women is allus that wilful, you know). Her fumbles about in they garrets, when drip, drip, drip comes down something wet and sticky on my face. I strikes a match, and vound as it were blood. ‘Murder, murder,’ I shrieks : ‘the blood be a coming thro’ the ceiling.’ ” ““* Drat thee, thou fool,’ says Sairah, who’d just come back. ‘’Tis the elderberry wine as ’ave busted and is a runnin’ all over the floor.’ ” ‘And was it the elderberry wine?” I asked. *“No, no; it was they ghosts at it again.” ** But didn’t you go up and see?” “Not I, not I,” said Sheppard. “I wouldn’t never go into that garret on the longest, brightest summer’s day as ever was.” Soon after this little refreshing anecdote, a very old man, bent almost double, came toiling up the walk. ““Who’s this, Sheppard ?” I said. ‘Old Billy Iles, to be sure.” “Who's he ?” “Oh, that old fool down at the village as is allus so proud as his father wur hanged.” “Curious people hereabouts, Willie,” I said; ‘‘and a curious thing to be proud of. But perhaps they think us just as curious.” ‘“He’s proud on’t,” says Sheppard, ‘‘cos a ain’t got nothing else to éé proud on.” ‘And very good philosophy, too,” said Willie. “Well, old gentleman, and what do you want? ” I asked. “TI wants to know if a young gentleman called Beamish is about comicooolks (CO)