J. Farjeon - No. 17

‘Now get on with your story, and be quick about it,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll have a look round—’

‘Wot—go hin?’ exclaimed the seaman, pausing in the act of wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Yes, of course.’

The seaman shook his head very decidedly.

‘I ain’t goin’ back into that ’ouse, guv’nor,’ he observed, ‘and doncher think it!’

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to,’ returned Fordyce grimly, and seized the man’s collar again swiftly. He was only just in time. ‘Now, understand me once and for all, old son,’ he remarked, with quiet assurance. ‘It isn’t likely that I’m going to pass this house, after what you’ve told me, without going in. And it isn’t likely that I’ll relieve myself of your company until I have gone in. Struggling’s no use. No earthly. Have you got that? Don’t be a fool, and act like a criminal before anyone accuses you!’

‘I tells yer, stright, I ain’t goin’ back inter that ’ouse,’ muttered the seaman miserably. ‘It’s give me the fair creeps, it ’as.’

‘Creeps, eh? Well, of course, a corpse isn’t exactly lively company.’

‘Ah, but it wasn’t the corpse wot started it,’ explained the seaman sepulchrally. ‘I got the creeps afore that. When fust I gits in the ’ouse, sir, there ain’t nobody helse in the blinkin’ plice, see? S’elp me, there wasn’t. I goes hover the ’ole plice—leastwise, most of it—and there ain’t nobody. But, afterwards—I ’eard things. Gawd, I ’eard things!’

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