IN WHICH SOME THINGS ARE DONE AND SOME OTHERS ARE SAID
As Bat went cautiously onward, the place where he had seen the movement
marked in his mind, he was aware of a glimmering of light over his
shoulder. Turning his head he saw the rim of the moon pushing its way
above the trees behind him.
“Hello!” said he. “Here’s our friend with the smiling face, and I
don’t know whether I’m glad to see him or not.” He stood gazing at the
disc, which mounted rapidly, throwing its cold rays along the hills.
“Anyway,” continued Bat, philosophically, “I caught him over my right
shoulder, and that means a run of luck. So with things fixed in my
favour, I’d better go on.”
Keeping as much in the shadow as possible, he went his way. After a
time he drew near to a hill, higher than any of those about it, from
which he had more than once admired the ancient looking towers of
Schwartzberg.
“I think I’d better top that,” he muttered, “and take an observation.
If there’s any one moving around out here I’ll be able to spot him in
the moonshine.”
Carefully he ascended the rather steep side of the hill; the lessons
of his youth, when he trailed a Geronimo in the southwest or stalked
“Billy-the-Kid” were as clear in his mind as ever.
“But the joints don’t work the same,” was the big man’s mental
complaint. “They creak enough to waken any fairly light sleeper, if
there were such camped in this vicinity.”
He came to the top of the hill, and standing in the shadow of a tree,
looked about. The long, trailing moonbeams and the dusky shadows lay
side by side, as far as he could see. There was a path which wound up
the west side of the hill, down on the east and away toward the river;
as Bat looked westward along this it disappeared in the shadows which
clung to the slope. And he heard a sound.
“Voices,” said he. Then, after a moment, “Voices and wheels.”
Quietly he waited and listened. Away to the east he saw the ghostlike
loom of Schwartzberg in the moonlight; the breeze stirred the bare
limbs of the trees under which he stood.
Bat smiled as he looked up at the branches.
“Still from the northwest,” said he. “Well, hold to it. Maybe you’ll
bring us something.”
Nearer and nearer came the sound of wheels--singularly light wheels.
And the stumbling hoofs of the usual horse were absent.
“Can it be some one doing a little hill climbing on a bicycle?” was the
big man’s silent question. “If so, he has an original turn of mind.”
But in a few moments more a shape emerged from the shadows, coming up
the hill. It was a rolling chair; in it was a muffled figure and behind
it laboured a squat, strong-looking servant.
“By Jove!” was Bat’s mental exclamation. “It’s the sick fellow from the
inn.”
Upon reaching the crest of the hill the chair stopped. The squat
servant spoke to the invalid inquiringly, but in a strange tongue.
“Lift me up,” directed the man in the chair.
The stocky one did as directed; the patient turned his face toward
the castle, and his eyes remained fixed upon it for a long time. The
breeze moved softly; there was scarcely a sound to be heard.
“He’s been here before,” mused Bat, from the shadow of the tree. “And
it’s not been for air, either.” Then Ashton-Kirk and his array of
pictured skulls occurred to the watcher, and he gazed at the peculiar
frontal formation of the sick man with attention. “I wonder,” was his
next thought, “how Kirk doped it out that this fellow was in on our
affair? and I also wonder what a skull with a flat place in front’s got
to do with it?”
After a time Bat saw that the pale hands of the invalid were moving
as though he were fumbling impatiently with his wrappings. Then, for
a space, he’d remain perfectly still; as the pale moon shone directly
upon his face, Bat noted that his eyes during these periods of
stillness were closed. But once more they’d open and again the wasted
hands would begin to stir in the same impatient way. During the spaces
in which the sick man sat with closed eyes, the watcher often saw his
face twitch suddenly; and once he laughed out, clear and loud.
For the space of half an hour this continued; then there was a long
period during which the sick one sat as though he were thinking. Then
he spoke quietly to his servant; promptly the man lowered him to a
reclining position, turned the chair about and wheeled it carefully
away in the direction from which they came.
Amazed, Bat stood beneath the friendly tree.
“Well,” said he, “I wonder what’s all that? There is something on the
range, that’s sure; but as far as my memory goes it’s the queerest bit
of business I ever witnessed. There he sits with his eyes shut, and
makes faces at the moon. And the lad that pushes him around instead
of calling for an ambulance seems to think it a perfectly natural
proceeding.”
Scanlon gazed once more in the direction of Schwartzberg; a spot of
yellow light winked here and there from a window; but otherwise the
great place, lit as it was by the moon, seemed paler and more ghostly
than ever.
“If that was a winter moon, and there was snow on the ground, and
the Christmas bells were ringing in the distance,” mused Bat, “I’d
understand why I feel as I do. Those trees over there would be the
Black Forest; there would be a small bright place among them showing
the charcoal burners at work; and in a couple of minutes along would
come a little old man with a white beard and a bundle of faggots on his
back. Then I’d know I was six years old and reading a story-book. But
being a man and grown to some size, I’m up in the air.”
He stepped out from the shadow of the tree, and throwing his arms wide,
yawned luxuriously. Then he realized that several men stood beside him.
“Hello!” said Bat, and brought the yawn to an abrupt termination. “How
are you?”
One was the drawn-looking man whom he and Ashton-Kirk had seen at the
inn; the other was the brisk little physician whom they had seen upon
the same occasion.
The drawn-looking man stood with stooped shoulders and regarded Bat
with wondering eyes. Then he coughed into a handkerchief.
“It’s a very brilliant night,” suggested he.
“Great!” replied Bat.
The little physician fixed his eye-glasses firmly upon his nose.
“It is a night,” stated he, “for being outdoors. As a matter of fact,
any night, or any day, are excellent for that purpose. The warm-blooded
animal requires great quantities of those forces which the air holds
for his use; and to get them he must go where it is. Otherwise he’ll be
ill.”
“That sounds like a very good argument,” observed Bat, calmly.
“As a rule,” stated the doctor, and he regarded Bat through his lenses,
“my patients resent the idea of outdoors. They look at it askance.
There is the suggestion of hardship in the mere idea. They want to be
coddled in a room full of poisonous vapours.” Still he looked at the
big man fixedly; then he continued, “You are not of sickly habit, I
think, and so you require no urging to take the air.”
“Not a bit,” replied Scanlon. “To-night, as a matter of fact,” his
mind running back to the words of Kretz, “I was strongly urged to stay
indoors.”
The drawn man coughed; he looked extremely fragile in the pale light;
his face was bloodless, and his eyes had a feverish glint.
“In the main, the doctor is correct in his observations,” said he. “But
for all, I can’t help thinking there _are_ times when one should stay
inside.”
Bat waited a moment, expecting a protest from the physician; but none
came; that gentleman was engaged with the moonlit landscape.
“And such times?” asked Bat. “Just what are they like?”
The drawn man wiped his lips, and his thin, bowed shoulders shrugged.
“Perhaps one’s own discretion is best as to that,” said he, mildly.
“But, for the sake of an example, a skipper does not venture to sea in
the face of a storm; a mountaineer keeps from the passes in the season
of snows; a careful man does not force his way into those things which
do not concern him.”
“I get you,” said Bat, thoughtfully. “But I also see some holes in your
argument. It’s not nearly so good as the doctor’s spiel for fresh air.
The skipper, if he’s on his job and has the craft, has no right to let
a blow keep him in bed; and I’ve seen real two-handed lads hold to the
passes in all weathers. So far as the careful man is concerned--well,
different people have different ideas about what makes up a man of that
kind. Your notion of one seems to be a man who wouldn’t take a chance
except in his own affairs. But, in my little book, he’s written down as
one who’d think his friend’s affair just as important--and he’d be just
as anxious to set it right.”
“I think,” said the doctor, turning, “we’d better make our way down to
the road. The moon, in a few moments, will be under the clouds, and the
path is rather steep.”
The drawn man coughed and nodded to Mr. Scanlon.
“Good-night,” said he. “Now that you _are_ out,” and he smiled
disagreeably, “I trust you’ll enjoy yourself.”
“Thanks,” replied the big man, coolly. “I’ve always had kind of a knack
of doing that; so I shouldn’t wonder if I did.”