Wutzler, ready and certain of his
ground, led the tortuous way through narrow and greasy galleries, along
the side of a wall, and at last through an unlighted gate, free of
the town.
In the moonlight he stared at his companion, cackled, clapped his
thighs, and bent double in unholy convulsions.
"My gracious me!" He laughed immoderately. "Oh, I wait zo fearful, you
kom zo fonny!" For a while he clung, shaking, to the young man's arm.
"My friendt, zo fonny you look! My gootness me!" At last he regained
himself, stood quiet, and added very pointedly, "What did _yow_ lern?"
"Nothing," replied Heywood, angrily. "Nothing. Fragrant Ones! Not a bad
name. Phew!--Oh, I say, what did they mean? What Black Dog is to bark?"
"Black Dog? Black Dog iss cannon." The man became, once more, as keen as
a gossip. "What cannon? When dey shoot him off?"
"Can't tell," said his friend. "That's to be their signal."
"I do not know," The conical hat wagged sagely. "I go find out." He
pointed across the moonlit spaces. "Ofer dere iss your house. You can no
more. _Schlafen Sie wohl_."
The two men wrung each other's hands.
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