CHAPTER XIX.
THAT A SILVER BULLET HAS VIRTUE: WITH A WARNING TO COMMODORES.
"Well, sir," remarked Caleb at ten o'clock that evening, after an hour's watching had passed and brought no sign of a ghost, "I wish this 'ere sperrit, ef sperrit et be, wud put hissel' out to be punkshal.

They do say as the Queen must wait while her beer's a-drawin'; but et strikes me ghost-seein' es apt to be like Boscas'le Fair, which begins twelve an' ends at noon." Caleb caressed a huge blunderbuss which lay across his knee, and caused Mr.Fogo no slight apprehension.
"Et puts me i' mind," he went on, as his master was silent, "o' th' ould lidden [1] as us used to sing when us was tiny mites:--" Riddle me, riddle me, riddle me right, Where was I last Sat'rday night?
I seed a chimp-champ champin' at his bridle, I seed an ould fox workin' hissel' idle.
The trees did shever, an' I did shake, To see what a hole thic' fox did make.
"Now I comes to think 'pon et, 'tes Sat'rday night too; an' that's odd, as Martha said by her glove." Still Mr.Fogo was silent.
"As for the blunderbust, sir, there's no call to be afeard.

Tes on'y loaded wi' shot an' a silver shillin'.

I heerd tell that over to Tresawsen, wan time, they had purty trouble wi' a lerrupin' big hare, sir.

Neither man nor hound cud cotch her; an' as for bullets, her tuk in bullets like so much ballast.