which, it replied, with a ghastly grin and a sound like gurgling water in its throat:
"Mr. Baker's trap."
As it is a point of great sensitiveness with me on such occasions to be equal to the intellectual pressure of the conversation, I deeply considered the meaning of this speech, while I eyed the apparition—then engaged in hugging and sucking a horizontal iron bar at the top of the locks. Inspiration suggested to me that Mr. Baker was the acting coroner of that neighbourhood.
"A common place for suicide," said I, looking down at the locks.
"Sue?" returned the ghost, with a stare. "Yes! And Poll. Likewise Emily. And Nancy. And Jane;" he sucked the iron between each name; "and all the bileing. Ketches off their bonnets or shorls, takes a run, and headers down here, they doos. Always a headerin' down here, they is. Like one o'clock."
"And at about that hour of the morning, I suppose?"
"Ah!" said the apparition. "They an't partickler. Two 'ull do for them. Three. All times o'night. On'y mind you!" Here the apparition rested his profile on the bar, and gurgled in a sarcastic manner. "There must be somebody comin' They don't go a headerin' down here, wen there an't no Bobby nor gene'ral Cove, fur to hear the splash."
According to my interpretation of these words, I was myself a General Cove, or member of the miscellaneous public. In which modest character I remarked:
"They are often taken out, are they, and restored?"
"I dunno about restored," said the apparition, who, for some occult reason, very much objected to that word; "they're carried into the werkiss and put into a 'ot bath, and brought round. But I dunno about restored," said the apparition; "blow that!"—and vanished.
As it had shown a desire to become offensive, I was not sorry to find myself alone, especially as the "werkiss" it had
