The result was, that, with one short wild cry of renewed horror, Bumpus and Corrie turned sharp round and fled in the opposite direction.
There is no doubt whatever that they would have succeeded in ultimately escaping from this pertinacious ghost, and poor Poopy would have had to make the best of her way to Sandy Cove alone, but for the fortunate circumstance that Corrie fell; and being only a couple of paces in advance of his companion, Bumpus fell over him.
The ghost took advantage of this to run forward, crying out, "Corrie! Corrie! Corrie!--it's me! _me_! ME!" with all her might.
"Eh! I do believe it knows my name!" cried the boy, scrambling to his feet, and preparing to renew his flight; but Bumpus laid his heavy hand on his collar, and held him fast.
Instead of flying, the seaman heaved a deep sigh; and, sitting down on a rock, took out a reddish brown cotton handkerchief, wherewith he wiped his forehead.
"My boy," said he, still panting; "it ain't a ghost. No ghost wos ever known to _speak_. They looks, an' they runs, an' they yells, an' they vanishes, but they never speaks; d'ye see? I told ye it was a sciencrific dolusion; though, I'm bound for to confess, I never heerd o' von o' them critters speakin', no more than the ghosts. Howsomedever, that's wot it is."
Corrie, who still hesitated, and held himself in readiness to bolt at a moment's notice, suddenly cried:
"Why! I _do_ believe it's--No; it can't be--yes--I say, it's _Poopy_."
"Wot's Poopy?" inquired the seaman, in some anxiety.
"What! don't you know Poopy, Alice's black maid, who keeps her company, and looks after her; besides' doin' her and 'undoin' her (as she calls it), night and morning, and putting her to bed? Hooray! Poopy, my lovely black darling; where _have_ you come from? You've frightened Bumpus here nearly out of his wits. I do believe he'd have bin dead by this time, but for me!"
So saying, Corrie, in the revulsion of his suddenly relieved feelings, actually threw his arms round Poopy, and hugged her.
"O Corrie!" exclaimed the girl, submitting to the embrace with as much indifference as if she had been a lamp-post, "w'at troble you hab give me! Why you run so? sure you know me voice."
"Know it, my sweet lump of charcoal; I'd know it among a thousand, if ye'd only use it in its own pretty natural tones; but if you _will_ go and screech like a bottle-imp, you know," said Corrie, remonstratively, "how can you expect a stupid feller like me to recognize it?"