"Humph!" said the disappointed treasure-hunter audibly; "daylight and a
stout pole may probe the mystery to the bottom. I'll mark this spot."
"Mark this spot," said another voice at some distance, repeating his
words like an echo. The rock was certainly within "striking distance,"
and it might have been this accident which lent its aid to the delusion.
Gregory could not withstand so apparently supernatural an occurrence. He
took to his heels, driven fairly off the field; nor did he look behind
him until safely entrenched before a blazing fire in the kitchen at
Waddington Hall.
"Out, ill-favoured hound!" said a serving wench, who was stirring a
blubbering mess of porridge for supper. But Gregory was not in the
humour to reply: he sat with one long lean hand under his chin, the
other hung down listlessly to his heels, which were drawn securely under
the stool on which he sat. His thoughts were not on the victuals, though
by long use and instinct his eyes were turned in that direction.
"Thee art ever hankering after the brose, thou greedy churl!" continued
the wench, wishful to goad him on to some intemperate reply.
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