g his pipe, "and I
thought I'd put it out o' reach. Some men----"

His fingers twined round the animal's neck; then, with a sigh, he rose
and took a turn or two on the jetty.

Superstitiousness is right and proper, to a certain extent, he said,
resuming his seat; but, o' course, like everything else, some people
carry it too far--they'd believe anything. Weak-minded they are, and if
you're in no hurry I can tell you a tale of a pal o' mine, Bill
Burtenshaw by name, that'll prove my words.

[Illustration: "Superstitiousness is right and proper, to a certain
extent."]

His mother was superstitious afore 'im, and always knew when 'er friends
died by hearing three loud taps on the wall. The on'y mistake she ever
made was one night when, arter losing no less than seven friends, she
found out it was the man next door hanging pictures at three o'clock in
the morning. She found it out by 'im hitting 'is thumb-nail.

For the first few years arter he grew up Bill went to sea, and that on'y
made 'im more superstitious than ever. Him and a pal named Silas Winch
went several v'y'ges together, and their talk used to be that creepy that
some o' the chaps was a'most afraid to be left on deck alone of a night.
Silas was a long-faced, miserable sort o' chap, always looking on the
black side o' things, and shaking his 'ead over it. He thought nothing
o' seeing ghosts, and pore old Ben Huggins slept on the floor for a week
by reason of a ghost with its throat cut that Silas saw in his bunk. He
gave Silas arf a dollar and a neck-tie to change bunks with 'im.

When Bill Burtenshaw left the sea and got married he lost sight of Silas
altogether, and the on'y thing he 'ad to remind him of 'im was a piece o'
paper which they 'ad both signed with their blood, promising that the
fust one that died would appear to the other. Bill agreed to it one
evenin' when he didn't know wot he was doing, and for years arterwards 'e
used to get the cold creeps down 'is back when he thought of Silas dying
fust. And the idea of dying fust 'imself gave 'im cold creeps all over.

Bill was a very good husband when he was sober, but 'is money was two
pounds a week, and when a man has all that and on'y a wife to keep out of
it, it's natural for 'im to drink. Mrs. Burtenshaw tried all sorts o'
ways and means of curing 'im, but it was no use. Bill used to think o'
ways, too, knowing the 'arm the drink was doing 'im, and his fav'rite
plan was for 'is mis