The Ghost Ship | Page 5

with a silk handkerchief in a
very genteel fashion. "I'm only here for a few months," he said; "but if
a testimony of my esteem would pacify your good lady I should be
content," and with the words he loosed a great gold brooch from the
neck of his coat and tossed it down to landlord.
Landlord blushed as red as a strawberry. "I'm not denying she's fond of
jewellery," he said, "but it's too much for half a sackful of turnips." And

indeed it was a handsome brooch.
The captain laughed. "Tut, man," he said, "it's a forced sale, and you
deserve a good price. Say no more about it;" and nodding good-day to
us, he turned on his heel and went into the cabin. Landlord walked back
up the lane like a man with a weight off his mind. "That tempest has
blowed me a bit of luck," he said; "the missus will be much pleased
with that brooch. It's better than blacksmith's guinea, any day."
Ninety-seven was Jubilee year, the year of the second Jubilee, you
remember, and we had great doings at Fairfield, so that we hadn't much
time to bother about the ghost-ship though anyhow it isn't our way to
meddle in things that don't concern us. Landlord, he saw his tenant
once or twice when he was hoeing his turnips and passed the time of
day, and landlord's wife wore her new brooch to church every Sunday.
But we didn't mix much with the ghosts at any time, all except an idiot
lad there was in the village, and he didn't know the difference between
a man and a ghost, poor innocent! On Jubilee Day, however, somebody
told Captain Roberts why the church bells were ringing, and he hoisted
a flag and fired off his guns like a loyal Englishman. 'Tis true the guns
were shotted, and one of the round shot knocked a hole in Farmer
Johnstone's barn, but nobody thought much of that in such a season of
rejoicing.
It wasn't till our celebrations were over that we noticed that anything
was wrong in Fairfield. 'Twas shoemaker who told me first about it one
morning at the "Fox and Grapes." "You know my great great-uncle?"
he said to me.
"You mean Joshua, the quiet lad," I answered, knowing him well.
"Quiet!" said shoemaker indignantly. "Quiet you call him, coming
home at three o'clock every morning as drunk as a magistrate and
waking up the whole house with his noise."
"Why, it can't be Joshua!" I said, for I knew him for one of the most
respectable young ghosts in the village.
"Joshua it is," said shoemaker; "and one of these nights he'll find
himself out in the street if he isn't careful."
This kind of talk shocked me, I can tell you, for I don't like to hear a
man abusing his own family, and I could hardly believe that a steady
youngster like Joshua had taken to drink. But just then in came butcher
Aylwin in such a temper that he could hardly drink his beer. "The

young puppy! the young puppy!" he kept on saying; and it was some
time before shoemaker and I found out that he was talking about his
ancestor that fell at Senlac.
"Drink?" said shoemaker hopefully, for we all like company in our
misfortunes, and butcher nodded grimly.
"The young noodle," he said, emptying his tankard.
Well, after that I kept my ears open, and it was the same story all over
the village. There was hardly a young man among all the ghosts of
Fairfield who didn't roll home in the small hours of the morning the
worse for liquor. I used to wake up in the night and hear them stumble
past my house, singing outrageous songs. The worst of it was that we
couldn't keep the scandal to ourselves and the folk at Greenhill began to
talk of "sodden Fairfield" and taught their children to sing a song about
us:
"Sodden Fairfield, sodden Fairfield, has no use for bread-and-butter,
Rum for breakfast, rum for dinner, rum for tea, and rum for supper!"
We are easy-going in our village, but we didn't like that.
Of course we soon found out where the young fellows went to get the
drink, and landlord was terribly cut up that his tenant should have
turned out so badly, but his wife wouldn't hear of parting with the
brooch, so that he couldn't give the Captain notice to quit. But as time
went on, things grew from bad to worse, and at all hours of the day you
would see those young reprobates sleeping it off on the village green.
Nearly every afternoon a ghost-wagon used to jolt down to the ship
with a lading of rum, and though the