In a few
minutes we came to the side of a spinney with a low wall of rough stones
cutting it off from the field. I was intently looking ahead, when on a
sudden Sultan swerved so powerfully that I rocked in the saddle. I
wouldn't have touched him with the spur, short of utter necessity, for a
fistful of guineas, and I soothed him, and then turned to look for what
had upset him.
To be candid I swerved myself. Most of us in these days are pleased to
laugh at superstitions, provided we are in good company round a roaring
fire. I was here alone in a lonely field, at nine of the clock on a winter
night, and there, flittering and gliding through the spinney was a
something in white. Virgil believed in ghosts, and so did Joe Braggs, and
I, by oft reading the one and listening to the other, had preserved an
open mind. Apparently Sultan had his doubts, for he shivered and whinnied.
I pulled his head round away from the ghost, drew out a pistol, and
watched the unchancy thing's movements. It was evidently meant for me, for
it made a slight turn and came straight towards me. Then my man's logic,
as Margaret twittingly called it, came to my aid.
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