Mr. Fogo roused himself from his abstraction to ask—­

“Do you seriously believe it was a ghost that I saw last night?”

“That’s as may be.  Ef ’taint, ’tes folks as has no bus’ness hereabouts.  I’ve heerd tell as you’m wi’in the law ef you hails mun dree times afore firin’.  That’s what I means to do, anyway.  As for ghostes, I do believe, an’ I don’t believe.”

“What?  That a man’s spirit comes back after death to trouble folks?”

“I dunno ’bout sperrit:  but I heerd a tale wance ’bout a man’s remains as gi’ed a peck o’ trouble arter death.  ’Twas ould Commodore Trounce as the remains belonged to, an’ ’tes a queer yarn, ef you niver heerd et afore.”

Caleb looked at his master.  Mr. Fogo had not yet told the story of his call at “The Bower”; but Caleb saw that he was suffering, and had planned this story as a diversion.

The bait took.  Mr. Fogo looked up expectant, and lit a fresh pipe.  So Caleb settled himself in his corner of the window-seat, and, still keeping an eye on the old schooner, began—­

“THE COMMODORE’S PROGRESS.

“You’ve heerd me spake, sir, o’ Joe Bonaday, him as made poetry ’long wi’ me wan time when lying becalmed off Ilfrycombe?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, this Joe were a Barnstaple man, bred an’ born.  But he had a brother—­Sam were hes name—­as came an’ settled out Carne way; ‘Ould These-an’-Thicky,’ us used to call ’n.  Sam was a crowder, [2] you must knaw, an’ used to play the fiddle over to Tregarrick Fair; but he cudn’ niver play more’n two tunes.  ’Which’ll ‘ee ha’,’ he used to say, ’which’ll ‘ee ha’—­these or thicky?’ That’s why, tho’ he was christened Sam, us used to call ’n These-an’-Thicky for short.”

“I see.”

“This ‘ere Sam Bonaday, tho’ he came an’ settled down i’ these parts, was a bettermost body i’ some ways, an’ had a-seen a heap o’ life ‘long wi’ ould Commodore Trounce.  Sam was teetotum to the Commodore, an’ acted currier when th’ ould man travelled, which he did a brave bit—­brushin’ hes clothes, an’ shinin’ hes boots, an’ takin’ the tickets, an’ the res’.  The Commodore were mighty fond o’ Sam:  an’ as for Sam, he used to say he mou’t ha’ been the Commodore’s brother—­ on’y, you see, he warn’t.”

“I think I understand,” said Mr. Fogo.

“Iss, sir.  Well, t’ward the end o’ hes days the Commodore were stashuned out at Gibraltar, an’ o’ cou’se takes Sam.  He’d a-been ailin’ for a tidy spell, had the Commodore, an’ I reckon that place finished ‘un; for he hadn’ been there a month afore he tuk a chill, purty soon Sam saw ‘twas on’y a matter o’ time afore th’ ould man wud go dead.

“Sam kep’ hes maaster goin’ ‘pon brandy an’ milk for a while; but wan day he comes in an’ finds ‘un settin’ up in bed an’ starin’.  The Commodore was a little purgy, [3] bustious [4] sort o’ man, sir, wi’ a squinny eye an’ mottles upon hes face pretty near so thick as the Milky Way; an’ he skeered Sam a bit, settin’ up there an’ glazin’.