Nevertheless, as I was always known as the Major,
perhaps for no better reason than that the speaker, an old
journalist, was always called Doctor, I recognized the fact so far
as to kick aside an intervening saddle, so that I could see the
speaker's face on a level with my own, and said nothing.
"About ghosts!" said the Doctor, after a pause, which nobody broke
or was expected to break. "Ghosts, sir! That's what we want to
know. What are we doing here in this blanked old mausoleum of
Calaveras County, if it isn't to find out something about 'em, eh?"
Nobody replied.
"Thar's that haunted house at Cave City. Can't be more than a mile
or two away, anyhow. Used to be just off the trail."
A dead silence.
The Doctor (addressing space generally) "Yes, sir; it WAS a mighty
queer story."
Still the same reposeful indifference. We all knew the Doctor's
skill as a raconteur; we all knew that a story was coming, and we
all knew that any interruption would be fatal. Time and time
again, in our prospecting experience, had a word of polite
encouragement, a rash expression of interest, even a too eager
attitude of silent expectancy, brought the Doctor to a sudden
change of subject.
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