“Well,” said he, “I wonder what’s all that? There is something on the range, that’s sure; but as far as my memory goes it’s the queerest bit of business I ever witnessed. There he sits with his eyes shut, and makes faces at the moon. And the lad that pushes him around instead of calling for an ambulance seems to think it a perfectly natural proceeding.”
Scanlon gazed once more in the direction of Schwartzberg; a spot of yellow light winked here and there from a window; but otherwise the great place, lit as it was by the moon, seemed paler and more ghostly than ever.
“If that was a winter moon, and there was snow on the ground, and the Christmas bells were ringing in the distance,” mused Bat, “I’d understand why I feel as I do. Those trees over there would be the Black Forest; there would be a small bright place among them showing the charcoal burners at work; and in a couple of minutes along would come a little old man with a white beard and a bundle of faggots on his back. Then I’d know I was six years old and reading a story-book. But being a man and grown to some size, I’m up in the air.”
He stepped out from the shadow of the tree, and throwing his arms wide, yawned luxuriously. Then he realized that several men stood beside him.
“Hello!” said Bat, and brought the yawn to an abrupt termination. “How are you?”
One was the drawn-looking man whom he and Ashton-Kirk had seen at the inn; the other was the brisk little physician whom they had seen upon the same occasion.
The drawn-looking man stood with stooped shoulders and regarded Bat with wondering eyes. Then he coughed into a handkerchief.
“It’s a very brilliant night,” suggested he.
“Great!” replied Bat.
The little physician fixed his eye-glasses firmly upon his nose.