Page:Hopkinson Smith--armchair at the inn.djvu/293

. “I thought you understood. It was the scraping of the dead tree against the roof of the shed that made the creaking noise; the hand was the shadow cast by the end of a bunched-up branch swaying in the wind. The same thing occurred the next night and on every moonlight night for a week after—as long as I stayed.”

“And what became of the soap-suddy brigand with the rosaries?” inquired The Engineer calmly, looking at Louis over the bowl of his pipe, a queer smile playing around his lips.

“Oh, a ripping good fellow,” returned Louis in the same innocent, childlike tone—“a real comfort; best in the village outside the landlord and his wife, with whom I stayed two weeks. Brought me my luncheon every day and crawled up a breakneck hill to do it, and then kept on two miles to mail my letters.”

“Well, but Louis,” I exclaimed, “what a mean, thin, fake of a yarn; no point, no plot—no nothing but a string of”

“Yes, High-Muck, quite true—no plot, no nothing; but it is as good as your bogus ghosts and shivering bishops. And then I always had my doubts about that bishop, High-Muck. I’ve heard you tell that story before, and it has