When I cum to myself we were outside the coach-house door. The
moon was shinin' in, ad I cud see the corpse stretched on the table
whar we left it; and he kicked the door to wi' a purr o' his foot.
'Lock it,' says he; and so I did. And here's the key for ye--tak it
yoursel', sir. He offer'd me money: he said he'd mak me a rich man if
I'd sell him the corpse, and help him awa' wi' it."
"Hout, man! What cud he want o' t' corpse? He's not doctor, to do a'
that lids. He was takin' a rise out o' ye, lad," said Turnbull.
"Na, na--he wants the corpse. There's summat you a' me can't tell he
wants to do wi' 't; and he'd liefer get it wi' sin and thievin', and
the damage of my soul. He's one of them freytens a boo or a dobbies
off Dardale Moss, that's always astir wi' the like after nightfall;
unless--Lord save us!--he be the deaul himsel.'"
"Whar is he noo?" asked the landlord, who was growing uncomfortable.
"He spang'd up the back stair to his room. I wonder you didn't hear
him trampin' like a wild horse; and he clapt his door that the house
shook again--but Lord knows whar he is noo. Let us gang awa's up to
the Vicar's, and gan _him_ come down, and talk wi' him."
"Hoity toity, man--you're too easy scared," said the landlord, pale
enough by this time. "'Twould be a fine thing, truly, to send abroad
that the house was haunted by the deaul himsel'! Why, 'twould be the
ruin o' the George. You're sure ye locked the door on the corpse?"
"Aye, sir--sartain.
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