As they went out the Goth spoke to Padway in a lowered voice. "The real reason I'm glad to come to town is that somebody put a curse on my house."
"A curse? What kind of a curse?"
The Goth nodded solemnly. "A shortness-of-breath curse. When I'm home I can't breathe. I go around like this—" He gasped asthmatically. "But as soon as I get away from home I'm all right. And I think I know who did it."
"Who?"
"I foreclosed a couple of mortgages last year. I can't prove anything against the former owner's, but—" He winked ponderously at Padway.
"Tell me," said Padway, "do you keep animals in your house?"
"Couple of dogs. There's the stock, of course, but we don't let them in the house. Though a shote got in yesterday and ran away with one of my shoes. Had to chase it all over the damned farm. I must have been a sight, ha, ha!"
"Well," said Padway, "try keeping the dogs outside all the time and having your place well swept every day. That might stop your-uh-wheezing."
"Now, that's interesting. You really think it would?"
"I do not know. Some people get the shortness of breath from dog hairs. Try it for a couple of months and see."