Almost more amusing--as considerably extending the enjoyment--was it to
follow her quietly on such occasions, yet not so quietly but that she
was perfectly aware of footsteps behind, which stopped when she stopped
and went on again when she went on, and so kept her nerves on the quiver
the whole time.
Creeping fearfully along in the blackness, with eyes and ears on the
strain, and both little shoulders humped against the expected apparition
of Tom--or worse, she would become aware of the footsteps behind her.
Then she would stop suddenly to make sure, and stand listening
painfully, and hear nothing but the low hoarse growl of the sea that
rarely ceases, day or night, among the rocks of Little Sark.
Then she would take a tentative step or two and stop again, and then
dash on. And always there behind her were the footsteps that followed in
the dark.
Then she would fumble with her foot for a stone and stoop hastily--for
you are at a disadvantage with ghosts and with Toms when you stoop--and
pick it up and hurl it promiscuously in the direction of the footsteps,
and quaver, in a voice that belied its message, "Go away, Tom Hamon! I
can see you,"--which was a little white fib born of the black urgency of
the situation;--"and I'm not the least bit afraid,"--which was most
decidedly another.
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