wife. "See wot?"

"The ghost," ses Bill, in a 'orrible whisper; "the ghost of my dear, kind
old pal, Silas Winch. The best and noblest pal a man ever 'ad. The
kindest-'arted----"

"Rubbish," ses Mrs. Burtenshaw. "You've been dreaming. And as for the
kindest-'arted pal, why I've often heard you say--"

"H'sh!" ses Bill. "I didn't. I'll swear I didn't. I never thought of
such a thing."

"You turn over and go to sleep," ses his wife, "hiding your 'ead under
the clothes like a child that's afraid o' the dark! There's nothing
there, I tell you. Wot next will you see, I wonder? Last time it was a
pink rat."

"This is fifty million times worse than pink rats," ses Bill. "I on'y
wish it was a pink rat."

"I tell you there is nothing there," ses his wife. "Look!"

Bill put his 'ead up and looked, and then 'e gave a dreadful scream and
dived under the bed-clothes agin.

"Oh, well, 'ave it your own way, then," ses his wife. "If it pleases you
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 i