“Why, what on arth hev you bin after, Colonel?” he said, contemplating Harold’s filth-begrimed face, and hands, and clothes. “Is anything wrong up at the Castle, or is the cottage blown down?”
“No, no,” said Harold; “listen. You’ve heard tell of the treasure that old Sir James de la Molle buried in the time of the Roundheads?”
“Yes, yes. I’ve heard tell of that. Hev the gale blown it up?”
“No, but by heaven I believe that I am in a fair way to find it.”
George took another step back, remembering the tales that Mrs. Jobson had told, and not being by any means sure but that the Colonel was in a dangerous condition of lunacy.
“Give me a glass of something to drink, water or milk, and I’ll tell you. I’ve been digging all night, and my throat’s like a limeskin.”
“Digging, why where?”
“Where? In Dead Man’s Mount!”
“In Dead Man’s Mount?” said George. “Well, blow me, if that ain’t a funny place to dig at on a night like this,” and, too amazed to say anything more, he went off to get the milk.
Harold drank three glasses of milk, and then sat down to tell as much of his moving tale as he thought desirable.