Besides all this there were some broken flower-pots in a heap in one corner,—suicides from the window-sills above,—and some sagging clothes-lines, and a battered watering-pot, and a box or two that might once have held flowers; and yet with all this circumstantial evidence against me I cannot conscientiously believe that this forlorn courtyard ever could have risen to the dignity of a garden.
But of course nothing of all this can be seen at night. At night one sees only the tall clock tower of Jefferson Market with its one blazing eye glaring high up over the fence, the little lantern hung in the tunnel, and the glow through the curtains shading the old-fashioned windows of the house itself, telling of warmth and comfort within.
To-night when I pushed open the swinging door—the door of the tunnel entering from the street—the lantern was gone, and in its stead there was only the glimmer of a mysterious light moving about the yard,—a light that fell now on the bare wall, now on the front steps, making threads of gold of the twisted iron railings, then on the posts of the leaning fence, against which hung three feathery objects,—grotesque and curious in the changing shadows,—and again on some barrels and boxes surrounded by loose straw.
Following this light, in fact, guiding it, was a noiseless, crouching figure peering under the open steps, groping around the front door, creeping beneath the windows; moving uneasily with a burglar-like tread.
I grasped my umbrella, advanced to the edge of the tunnel, and called out:—
"Who's that?"
The figure stopped, straightened up, held a lantern high over its head, and peered into the darkness.
There was no mistaking that face.
"Oh, that's you, Chad, is it? What the devil are you doing?"
"Lookin' for one ob dese yer tar'pins Miss Nancy sent de colonel. Dey
was seben ob 'em in dis box, an' now dey ain't but six. Hole dis light,
Major, an' lemme fumble round dis rain-spout."
[Illustration:]