“Look here, Mateo, we know you’re shamming. The fact is that after getting us all wrought up to this bear business and agreeing to take the chief part, you’re afraid. Either you think the ‘boys’ll’ get lively with their shooting-irons and hunt the bear too well, or else—I don’t know what else. Only this, you can’t pretend to be hoodooed or ‘bewitched’ with any of Wun Sing’s omelettes. That’s all up. The doctor’s taken a hand in that and I know it isn’t indigestion you’re bewitched with—it’s plain sneak. Now, boy, get up!”
After Leslie’s long speech, that ended in the terse command, Mateo raised himself on elbow and protested:
“But it is of the illness, I, señor, en verdad. The omelette of Wun Sing—”
“May have been a little too rich for you, Matty lad, but don’t worry. That wonderful fowl has shortened her life by her own ambition. I suppose she had a certain number of eggs to lay during her earthly career and she concluded to get the job over with. She’s an all right Chinee hen, but she’s the one that’ll die, not you nor Wunny Sing. Doctor Jones said so. We’ve interviewed him on the subject. Doctors know a lot. So, be decent! Get up and practise a bit.”
Thus adjured by Herbert, for whom the valet had a great admiration, Mateo threw off the light covers and rose to his feet—fully dressed. He had only lain down, professing himself ill, whenever there was danger of his young master appearing.
With a swift change of front, he now fell in with the lads’ notions, and thereafter followed an hour of “practice,” accompanied by curious sounds and growlings. All this behind locked door and tightly shuttered windows—something almost unknown at peaceful San Leon.
At supper time there was a subdued air of mystery about the three lads, which Dorothy noticed, if none of the other girls did. Also, they were so extremely courteous and thoughtful that it was rather overdone. However, politeness was agreeable, and there followed the happiest evening the young guests had spent since the departure of Gray Lady for the east.
The fading moonlight was now supplemented by the electric lights, making the wide lawns brilliant as day, save where the deep shadows fell, black in contrast. At midnight, Dorothy awoke. Something had startled her and she sat up in bed, shivering in fear. How queer! she thought and peered through the window as if expecting some unwelcome sight. There was nothing unusual visible and, except for a curious creeping sound, as of some large body moving stealthily on the veranda floor, nothing to hear.
Strange that brave Dorothy’s heart should beat so fast and she turn so cold. She wished Alfy would awake. She wanted to hear somebody speak. Then she scorned herself for her foolishness, wondering if she, too, had caught the Chinaman’s terror of “bewitchment.” Oh! this was horrid! Alfy would go right to sleep again, even if she were awakened, and she must, she must hear somebody human!