“Who, indeed!” exclaimed the physician, sympathetically, and drove the faster.
From which it was evident that the burglar-ghost had been only poor Paula, taking one of her nocturnal, somnambulistic exercises; and that when Octave had missed her sister from their room, she had set out in pursuit of her. Likewise had little Christina, who, lying awake on her own small bed, had seen Paula pass the door, and had sleepily murmured, “She’s walking again, and I must get up and follow her.” Likewise Content, who had learned the family habit of care over the unfortunate victim of somnambulism. Ditto Rosetta, whose burdened soul had never known peaceful rest since the Kinsolvings went away and left the “pickles” in her charge.
No wonder that Fritz had seen a “whole yard full of ghosts”; for none of the pursuers had stopped to cover their white night-robes with anything less gleaming; and no wonder that each and every female throat had emitted the shrillest scream of which it was capable, on receiving an attack from fire-arms.
But “all is well that ends well,” and when the doctor had duly examined each “spook” separately, he found nothing more serious than a very bad fright to all, with a faintness on Paula’s part, which was easily accounted for by the shock of her sudden awaking.
“I’m sure to goodness she is hit some’eres, though,” declared Rosetta, even in the face of professional assurance to the contrary. “That little boy has shot more things ’an ye could shake a stick at; he’s allays a pepperin’ sunthin’; only day afore yisterday he aimed to kill a chipmonk an’ hit my Plymouth rooster.”
“Stuff and nonsense, Rosetta! That ought to prove to you that he didn’t hit Paula—since he deliberately aimed at her. Anyway, he only shot a hole through her very best night-dress, which she had no business to be wearing every day, and served her right,” cried Octave.
“Is this so, Fritzy?” asked the doctor, despairing of convincing Rosetta that things were not so terrible after all. “Do you practise shooting at that rate?”
“Well, I’m kind of out of practice now, but I used to hit a tack, a carpet tack, forty feet away,” answered the boy, with boastful assurance.
“Indeed! That was doing well,” exclaimed the amused physician.
Suddenly the boy pulled out a small pistol, and before the doctor quite comprehended what he was after, aimed at the opposite door and fired. The bullet missed its mark, but Fritz walked across to the casement, and examined it with interest. “See? See there? That’s where she went through!” The grubby little forefinger traced a diminutive crack at the point where he fancied the bullet had vanished. “Must ha’ gone clear through!”