Thereafter, from the rear of the barn, came the sound of a blow and
the creak of a rusty hinge, quickly followed by a rustle of leaves
that grew fainter and fainter, and so was presently gone. Then
Barnabas rose, and coming to the window, peered cautiously out, and
there, standing before the barn surveying its dilapidation with round,
approving eyes, his nobbly stick beneath his arm, his high-crowned,
broad-brimmed hat upon his head, was Mr. Shrig.
CHAPTER LVI
OF THE GATHERING OF THE SHADOWS
Surprise and something very like disappointment were in Mr. Shrig's
look as Barnabas stepped out from the yawning doorway of the barn.
"V'y, sir," said he, consulting a large-faced watch. "V'y, Mr. Beverley,
it's eggs-actly tventy minutes arter the time for it!"
"Yes," said Barnabas.
"And you--ain't shot, then?"
"No, thank heaven."
"Nor even--vinged?"
"Nor even winged, Mr. Shrig."
"Fate," said Mr. Shrig, shaking a dejected head at him, "Fate is a
werry wexed problem, sir! 'Ere's you now, Number Three, as I might
say, the unfort'nate wictim as was to be--'ere you are a-valking up
to Fate axing to be made a corp', and vot do you get? not so much as
a scrat--not a westige of a scrat, v'ile another unfort'nate wictim
vill run avay from Fate, run? ah! 'eaven's 'ard! and werry nat'ral
too! and vot does 'e get? 'e gets made a corp' afore 'e knows it.
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