"
As they scurried off through the tall wet grass to a less exposed
station, a solitary figure came haltingly through the little gate. It
was the head-waiter, and, as he carried no lantern, he was compelled
to light matches now and then; after getting his bearings he would
dart resolutely on for a dozen paces before lighting another. Stopping
in front of the church door, he nervously tried to penetrate the gloom
with an anxious gaze; then, suddenly bethinking, he gave three timid
little coughs. Getting no immediate response, he growled aloud in his
wrath:
"I've coughed my head off in front of every house between here and the
hotel, and I'm gettin' darned tired of it. I don't like this business;
and I never could stand for graveyards. Good Lord! what's that?"
Three sharp whistles came to his alert ears, coming, it seemed, from
the very heart of some grim old gravestone. A man strode boldly across
the yard from the gate, his walk indicating that he was perfectly
familiar with the lay of the land.
"Who coughed?" he demanded loudly. "Is there no one here? What the
dickens does it mean? Joe Dauntless! Where are you? No fooling now; my
wife's worse, and I can't stay here all night.
Pages:
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110