to me on the road, and my inability to account for them.
“So that’s what you’re after!” said the master somewhat bluntly. “Well, I can tell you nothing about it; sperits don’t come in my way, saving and excepting those which can be taken inwardly; and mighty comfortable warming things they be when so taken. If you ask me about other sorts of sperits, I tell you flat I don’t believe in ’em, though I don’t mind drinking the health of them what does.”
“Perhaps you may have the chance, if you are a little more communicative,” said I.
“Well, I’ll tell you all I know, and that is precious little,” answered the worthy man. “I know one thing for certain—that one compartment of a second-class carriage is always left vacant between Brighton and Hassock’s Gate, by the 9.30 up-train.”
“For what purpose?”
“Ah! that’s more than I can fully explain. Before the orders came to this effect, people went into fits and that like, in one of the carriages.”
“Any particular carriage?”
“The first compartment of the second-class carriage nearest to the engine. It is locked at Brighton, and I unlock it at this station.”
“What do you mean by saying that people had fits?”
“I mean that I used to find men and women a-screeching and a-hollering like mad to be let out; they’d seen some’ut as had frightened them as they was passing through the Clayton tunnel. That was before they made the arrangement I told y’ of.”
“Very strange!” said I meditatively.
“Wery much so, but true for all that. I don’t believe in nothing but sperits of a warming and cheering nature, and them sort ain’t to be found in Clayton tunn’l to my thinking.”
There was evidently nothing more to be got out of my friend. I hope that he drank my health that night; if he omitted to do so, it was his fault, not mine.
As I rode home revolving in my mind all that I had heard and seen, I became more and more settled in my determination to thoroughly investigate the matter. The best means that I could adopt for so doing would be to come out from Brighton by the 9.30 train in the very compartment of the second-class carriage from which the public were considerately excluded.
Somehow I felt no shrinking from the attempt; my curiosity was so intense that it overcame all apprehension as to the consequences.
My next free day was Thursday, and I hoped then to execute my plan. In this, however, I was disappointed, as I found that a battalion drill was fixed for that very evening, and I was desirous of attending it, being somewhat behindhand in the regulation number of drills. I was consequently obliged to postpone my Brighton trip.
On the Thursday evening about five o’clock, I started in regimentals with my rifle over my shoulder, for the drilling ground, a piece of furzy common near the railway station.
I was speedily overtaken by Mr. Ball, a corporal in the rifle corps, a capital shot and most efficient in his drill. Mr. Ball was driving his gig. He stopped on seeing me and offered me a seat beside him. I gladly accepted, as the distance to the station is a mile and three-quarters by the road, and two miles by what is commonly supposed to be the short cut across the fields.
After some conversation on volunteering matters, about which Corporal Ball was an enthusiast, we turned out of the lanes into the station road, and I took the opportunity of adverting to the subject which was uppermost in my mind.
“Ah! I have heard a good deal about that,” said the corporal. “My workmen have often told me some cock-and-bull stories of that kind, but I can’t say has ’ow I believed them. What you tell me is, ’owever, very remarkable. I never ’ad it on such good authority afore. Still, I can’t believe that there’s hanything supernatural about it.”
“I do not yet know what to believe,” I replied, “for the whole matter is to me perfectly inexplicable.”
“You know, of course, the story which gave rise to the superstition?”
“Not I. Pray tell it me.”
“Just about seven years agone—why, you must remember the circumstances as well as I do—there was a man druv over from I can’t say where, for that was never exact-ly hascertained,—but from the Henfield direction, in a light cart. He went to the Station Inn, and throwing the reins to John Thomas, the ostler, bade him take the trap and bring it round to meet the 9.30 train, by which he calculated to return from Brighton. John Thomas said as ’ow the stranger was quite unbeknown to him, and that he looked as though he ’ad some matter on his mind when he went to the train; he was a queer sort of a man, with thick grey hair and beard, and delicate white ’ands, jist like a lady’s. The trap was round to the station door as hordered, by the arrival of the 9.30 train. The ostler observed then that the man was ashen pale, and that his ’ands trembled as he took the reins, that the stranger stared at him in a wild habstracted way, and that he would have driven off without tendering payment had he not been respectfully reminded that the ’orse had been given a feed of hoats. John Thomas made a hobservation to the gent relative to the wheel which was loose, but that hobservation met with no corresponding hanswer. The driver whipped his ’orse and went off. He passed the turnpike, and was seen to take the Brighton road hinstead of that by which he had come. A workman hobserved the trap next on the downs above Clayton chalk-pits. He didn’t pay much attention to it, but he saw that the driver was on his legs at the ’ead of the ’orse. Next, morning, when the quarrymen went to the pit, they found a shattered tax-cart at the bottom, and the ’orse and driver dead, the latter with his neck broken. What was curious, too, was that an ’andkerchief was bound round the brute’s heyes, so that he must have been driven over the edge blindfold. Hodd, wasn’t it? Well, folks say that the gent and his tax-cart pass along the road every hevening after the arrival of the 9.30 train; but I don’t believe it; I ain’t a bit superstitious—not I!”
Next week I was again disappointed in my