We had ridden about a mile when a dog attempted to cross our path. We
all but ran the poor brute down.
"Why, it's lame!" exclaimed Arnold.
"Oh, if it were but a lame man, instead of a dog!" fervently said the
groom, who was in the secret of our quest.
A horrid oath rang out on the smoky morning air. Michael, his wicked
eyes bulging fiercely, his thick neck swollen with rage, was cursing
like the army in Flanders, as related by dear old Uncle Toby.
"Lame man! why, oddsbodkins, that hostler was lame! Oh, fooled, by God!
cheated, fooled, swindled and tricked by that scamp and scullion of the
inn! Oh, we've been nicely swindled by an old wives' tale of a ghost!"
I stared in sheer amazement at Michael, wondering if the strangely spent
night had upset his reason. He could only splutter out between his awful
curses:--
"Gluck, the rascal, the ghost, the man we're after! That
harpsichord--the lying knave--that tune--I swear it wasn't Gluck--oh,
the rascal has escaped again! The ghost story--the villain was told to
scare us out of the house--to put us off the track.
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