“I was hoping to get a chance down there with the jazz orchestra,” lamented Rogers, “but I hear they’ve brought two saxophone players up from Cleveland, which lets me out.”
“Tough luck, Red,” sympathized Tommy. “You and Wat ought to find a chance somewhere to do a turn with sax and traps; the Pavilion isn’t the only place.”
“What’s the matter with our running some dances of our own?” asked Ned. “The Pavilion is usually over-crowded and we ought to get some of the business.”
“Who do you mean bywe?” inquired Wat Sanford.
“Well, there’s you with the traps and Red with the sax—as Fatty has just suggested,” began Ned. “Dick is pretty fair on the banjo and Jim can play the piano with the best of ’em. Dave can do his stuff on the clarinet—if he’s not too exhausted—and I would make a bluff with the trumpet. Fatty could take tickets and act as a general utility man. That makes seven, all we need for a start.”
“That’s about half of the high school orchestra,” remarked Dick. “I guess with a little practice we might get by as far as music is concerned, but where would we run the dances?”
Several possibilities were suggested, only to be turned down as impracticable for one reason or another.
“What we want is a place just out of town which auto parties can reach handily,” declared Jim Tapley, who was taking a lively interest in the scheme. “We could serve refreshments and make something that way.”
“There’s one place we might do something with,” began Ned, a bit doubtfully. “I’m thinking of the Coleson house,” he continued. “Of course it’s a good ten miles out and quite a distance off the main road.”
“Yes, and that’s not the whole story either,” objected Rogers. “The house was going to wrack and ruin even while Coleson lived in it, and lying shut up so long can’t have improved it a whole lot.”
“Guess it’s in bad shape all right,” agreed Tommy Beals. “Haunted, too—if you can believe all you hear about it. There’s talk of some mighty queer things going on out there.”
“What kind of things?” asked Wat Sanford, quickly.
“Can’t say exactly,” admitted Beals. “Some folks claim to have seen and heard things that couldn’t be explained. Last fall a darky went past the house after dark and was scared pretty near dippy.”
“That’s the bunk,” drawled Dave Wilbur. “D’j’ever see a darky that wasn’t nuts on ghosts?”
“What do you say we take a run out there anyhow?” suggested Rogers. “It’s a swell day for a ride and we can go swimming; the water’s elegant; I was in yesterday!”
“Bully idea, Red,” applauded Tapley. “Come on, Weary! Crank up the old flivver!” he cried, as he stirred up the recumbent Wilbur with his toe.
Thus appealed to, Dave arose lazily to back the little car out of the garage, and piling in, the boys settled themselves as best they could upon its lumpy cushions.
“What do you reckon we’ll find out there, Ned?” asked Wat Sanford a bit anxiously, when the flivver after sundry protesting coughs and sputters, had finally gotten under way.
“Oh, dirt and lonesomeness, mostly,” laughed Ned. “They’re the usual furniture of a deserted house—especially if it’s supposed to be haunted.”
Lonesomeness seemed, in truth, to pervade the very air and to settle like a pall upon the spirits of the boys, as the flivver coughed its way up the weed-grown drive and came to a halt before the tall, gloomy, brick front.
Charlie Rogers sprang out, and mounting the weatherbeaten steps leading to the broad porch, rattled the great iron knob of the massive front door. “It’s locked, all right,” he reported, “and these window-shutters seem pretty solid.”
Further investigation proved this to be true of all the openings of the lower story, but at the rear of the house one window-shutter of the story above had broken from its fastenings and swung creakingly in the breeze.
“If we only had a ladder—” began Wat Sanford.
“That’s not necessary,” interrupted Ned. “The question is who’s got the nerve to go through that window and find his way down to open one of these lower shutters?”
“I’ll do it,” volunteered Dick. “That is, I will if I can reach that window-sill; it’s about fifteen feet up.”
“We’ll put you there,” promised Ned, and he locked arms with Dave Wilbur. The two braced themselves close to the wall of the house. Tapley and Rogers mounted to their shoulders and Dick, climbing nimbly to the top of this human pyramid, grasped the window ledge above and drew himself upon it. In a moment he was inside, and pausing only long enough to accustom his eyes to the gloom of the interior, he picked his way down the unfinished stairs and unhooked a shutter that opened upon the front porch. By this means the other boys entered, but paused in awe of the deathly stillness of the place.
“Gee! It’s like a tomb!” shivered Sanford, and struggling with a window-fastening, he threw open another shutter at the westerly end, admitting a flood of sunlight which revealed an apartment nearly thirty feet square, partly paneled with oak and floored with the same material.
Opposite the entrance, a stairway had been completed up to its first broad landing, but the remainder of the flight was still in a rough, unfinished condition. Through a wide, arched doorway could be seen another large room, evidently designed for a dining-hall but entirely unfinished except for the floor, which, as in the case of the first apartment, was of quartered oak.
“What’s down below?” asked Wat, as he peered through a rectangular opening into the blackness beneath. “Ugh! It looks spooky!”
“There’s nothing down there except a big cellar,” replied Ned, reassuringly. “This hole was left for the cellar stairs to be built in, but they were never even begun.”
Further investigation of the interior showed the oaken paneling to be warped and cracked by dampness and long neglect, but the floors, beneath their thick covering of dust, were in fairly good condition.
“It’s the floor that we’re most interested in for our proposition,” declared Dick. “I believe that a few days of hard work with scrapers would make these two rooms fit for dancing. We could put the music on that stair-landing and leave this whole lower space free and clear.”
“Do you think we could get a crowd to come way out here?” asked Tommy Beals doubtfully. “It’s a lonesome dump even in the daytime, and at night it is mighty easy to believe these yarns about its being haunted.”
“Why not makethatthe big attraction!” exclaimed Ned with sudden inspiration. “Everybody is looking for thrills nowadays. We might be able to give ’em a brand new one.”
A chorus of approval greeted this suggestion.
“Bully stuff, Ned!” cried Charlie Rogers. “Great idea! And if there don’t happen to be any honest-to-goodness ghosts on the job, we can manufacture a few just to keep up the interest.”
“What do you think it would cost to fix up the old shebang?” asked Wilbur, who, despite his rather affected laziness, was beginning to take an interest in the scheme.
“Oh, not a whole lot,” replied Ned, glancing about with an appraising eye. “As Dick says, the floor is our chief consideration, and if we do the work on it ourselves, the only expense will be for scrapers and sandpaper. We can string bunting and flags to cover the breaks in the walls and ceiling. We’ll have to lay a floor over that stair-opening, or somebody will manage to tumble through into the cellar, but I guess we can find enough lumber around here to do the job.”
“How about lights?” inquired Sanford. “There isn’t an electric line within five miles.”
“We’ll use candles,” decided Ned. “A dim light will be just what we want for ghost stunts anyhow, and candles won’t cost much if we buy ’em in wholesale lots.”
“Shall we figure on refreshments?” asked Rogers.
“Sure thing!” asserted Dick. “The Pavilion sells ice cream and soft drinks; we can do the same and serve the stuff from the butler’s pantry. That will be just the job for Fatty!”
“Nothing doing!” objected Beals in an injured tone. “I draw the line on handing out grub for other folks to eat, but I’llmanagethe refreshment business and get our darky, Sam, to serve the stuff. Sam used to work in a restaurant and can do the trick in style.”
“All right, then,” announced Ned, who had, by common consent, assumed leadership, “let’s get organized into working shape. There are seven of us, and if we chip in two dollars each, it will put fourteen dollars into the treasury for immediate expenses.”
This was agreed to and Tommy Beals was elected treasurer.
“Now if there’s no objection I’ll assign the various jobs,” continued Ned. “Dick and Red are to get brooms, scrapers, and whatever else they think we need for fixing the floors. Weary and Wat will attend to the bunting and such other decorations as may be required—also the candles. Fatty and Jim will look after the matter of refreshments. The first thing to do is to make sure that we can get the use of this house at a rental that we can afford. I’ll talk to the town authorities right away and see if we can get a lease. Let’s meet at Dave’s house tomorrow afternoon and hear reports on costs of the different items, after that, we can make definite plans.”
Dave Wilbur’s back-yard was, as has been said, a favorite meeting-place for the Truesdell boys, and when for any reason secret sessions were desirable, the garage was especially convenient. Here, on the following afternoon, the seven prospective business men assembled to listen to reports of their various committees and to discuss ways and means. Ned Blake mounted a rickety step-ladder and called the meeting to order.
“I ran into a snag the moment I applied for a lease of the Coleson property,” began Ned. “The town authorities are willing to get some income from it to cover taxes, but it seems that to be legal the lease must stand in the name of somebody over twenty-one years old. We can get it for three months at twenty-five dollars a month, but the papers must be made out to somebody of legal age.”
“That ought to be easy,” suggested Dick Somers. “I know Dad would let the lease stand in his name, if I asked him to.”
Ned shook his head. “Of course we can get around it that way—and maybe we’ll have to come to it; but this scheme is all our own and I’d like to see us put it through and make a big success of it by our own efforts, without calling on anybody’s father for help in any way.”
“That’s the stuff!” exclaimed Wat Sanford. “We want to run this thing on our own. There ought to be some way to get around this silly legal difficulty.”
“I’ve got an idea,” volunteered Tommy Beals from the front seat of the flivver, where he had ensconced himself. “I talked with our man, Sam, last night and he agreed to handle the refreshments for us. Why not have the lease put in his name? That will cover the law and make Sam all the more anxious to attend to his part of the business.”
“Bully idea, Patty!” chorused several voices.
“But will Sam agree to this?” asked Ned.
“Sure he will!” declared Beals. “He’ll be so swelled up when he sees his name on a legal document that we’ll be lucky if he doesn’t bust! Leave it to me.”
This the boys were willing to do, and the discussion proceeded to other matters. Dick Somers and Charlie Rogers reported an option on the purchase of two brooms and half a dozen steel floor-scrapers at four dollars. Sandpaper and wax would bring the total to eight-fifty. They had also arranged for the loan of two polishing brushes when needed. Dave Wilbur and Wat Sanford had proved themselves shrewd business men in the matter of interior decoration.
“Wat and I have contracted to tack up the usual flags and bunting around the municipal band-stand on July third and take ’em down again on the fifth,” explained Dave. “In return for this hard toil we are to have the use of the stuff till Labor Day, when the town will need it again.”
“That’s a clever scheme and it will save us real money,” approved Ned. “I’m a bit worried about all the hard work you’ve laid out for yourself, Weary, but at that, I guess you’ll find it easier than scraping and polishing floors.”
“Yeah, I kind of figured it would take the load off’n me for a couple of days,” admitted Dave, with a grin.
These details being settled to the satisfaction of all, it was decided to begin operations without further delay. Ned Blake, Tommy Beals and Dave Wilbur started off in the flivver in quest of Sam, who, when found, proved very willing to leave his labors in the Beals garden for the purpose of signing an important document at the town hall. There was no hitch this time, and very shortly a lease of the Coleson property to one Samuel G. Washington, for the period of ninety days from date, was signed, sealed and delivered, and with it the key to the house.
“Don’t say a word about this to anybody, Sam,” was Ned’s parting injunction. “We want to keep the thing a secret as long as we can.”
“No sah, no sah, I don’t say nuthin’,” chuckled the negro and he strutted back to his work in an ecstasy of self-importance.
After leaving Sam, the flivver was headed for the hardware store, where the other boys were waiting, and with brooms and scrapers stowed in the car they were soon on the way to the scene of their labors.
“Our first job is to sweep out this dust,” announced Ned, when the great oaken door of the Coleson house had swing open at the turn of his newly acquired key. “Open every shutter and let the wind blow through.”
Coats were discarded and brooms wielded with such good will that all the floored portion of the lower story was speedily cleared of its heavy deposit of dust and dirt. As fast as this was removed, the steel scrapers were put to work and, by the time the long shadows warned of supper time, a creditable showing had been made. A dip in the cold water of the lake removed the grime and refreshed the spirits of the workers, after which they climbed into the little car and rattled away for home, well satisfied with their first day’s progress.
“All members of the orchestra meet for practice at my house tonight at seven-thirty,” directed Jim Tapley, who, by reason of his superior ability, was the acknowledged leader in things musical. “Come on over and listen in, Fatty,” he continued hospitably.
“No, thanks,” declined the plump youth with some fervor. “My nerves are none too strong after such a strenuous day and besides I’ve got an idea that I want to work up.”
When Tommy Beals got an idea, he pursued it with vigor, and long after the last wailing pulsation of the practicing orchestra had melted into midnight silence, Tommy was still busily at work in his own room, upon the walls of which were tacked several cleverly executed copies of his “idea.”
The week that now followed was one of hard labor, and the long hours of work at the Coleson house were succeeded by earnest rehearsals of the orchestra. Such industry brought gratifying results and hardly had the young people of Truesdell settled to their accustomed routine after the usual Fourth of July celebration, when their interest was aroused by promise of a new attraction. This was heralded by flaming posters, adorned with grinning death heads and bearing the following announcement:
DEMON DANCESat theHAUNTED COLESON HOUSE
THRILLS!! MYSTERY!!
PHUN with the PHANTOMS
Grand Opening Sat. July 7
Music by the Syncopating Six
Admission $1.00 a Couple
Refreshments.
Tommy Beals’ “idea” went over big—as his companions assured him in so hearty a manner that he grew quite pink with pleasure.
“It really wasn’t my idea at all,” he protested modestly. “Ned said it first. I only worked it up a bit and made the posters.”
“Yes, and in a way that none of the rest of us have got either the wit or the skill to do!” declared Ned, loyally. “Now the next thing will be to get up some stunts in the ghost line. Nothing horrible, but just enough to keep the crowd guessing.”
“That ought to be easy,” said Charlie Rogers. “All we need is a little phosphorescent paint—the kind that glows at night—kind of pale and ghastly, and maybe a couple of iron chains to clank at the right time.”
As July seventh drew near, the “haunted” house was the scene of feverish activity. The well scraped oak floor was given its final coating of wax and polished to a perilous smoothness. Flags and bunting, which had recently decked the town band-stand, now concealed the rough unfinished timbers and broken portions of walls and ceilings. A piano was installed on the stair-landing and one hundred chairs of the folding type used at public gatherings were arranged along the walls of the two dance rooms. A rectangle of solid flooring covered the opening to the cellar and removed any danger of injury to the dancers from a fall into the black pit below. With the heavy part of the work completed, the boys had declared a half-holiday and were gathered in the Wilbur garage for a final conference.
“We’re just fifty-six dollars in the hole,” announced Chairman Blake after a careful revision of the figures handed him by Treasurer Beals. “If this first dance is the success it ought to be, we can square up on everything and have something ahead for payment on the lease.”
“I guess we needn’t worry about that,” said Wat Sanford. “From the talk that’s going round we’ll have over a hundred paid admissions, easy.”
“The crowd down at the Pavilion is beginning to take notice,” chuckled Dick Somers. “Bony Jones held me up today and wanted to know who is backing us. I made him swear to keep the secret and then told him that Henry Ford is helping us. And that’s the truth,” continued Dick, indicating the flivver by a jerk of his thumb, “Henry is furnishing the transportation.”
“There’s something I ought to tell you fellows,” began Tommy Beals, when the laugh at Dick’s joke had subsided. “I don’t suppose it really amounts to anything, but all the same it’s a bit strange.” Here Tommy paused and drew from his pocket a paper which he unfolded and passed to Ned Blake. “It’s a letter that came to Sam,” continued Beals, “and I’ll say it just about scared the daylights out of that coon. Read it, Ned.”
Ned glanced over the typewritten sheet and read aloud as follows:
“Sam G. Washington,“I hear that you have hired my house and intend to run dances there. Now listen, you black son of Satan! If you do this, or if youallowit to be done, I’ll haunt you to your dying day.“Eli Coleson.”
“Sam G. Washington,
“I hear that you have hired my house and intend to run dances there. Now listen, you black son of Satan! If you do this, or if youallowit to be done, I’ll haunt you to your dying day.
“Eli Coleson.”
Ned paused and glanced round the circle of faces upon which was depicted surprise, doubt and uncertainty. For a moment nobody spoke. It was Tommy Beals who broke the silence.
“Sam got the letter this morning and was waiting to show it to me when I got home. I tried to laugh him out of his fright by telling him it was a joke that somebody is playing on him.”
“Of course it’s a joke!” exclaimed Charlie Rogers, impetuously. “Nobody but a superstitious darky would pay any attention to such stuff!”
“But suppose he should get scared and funk the whole thing and cancel his lease? What hold have we got on him to make him stick?” demanded Dave Wilbur.
“Not much, I’ll admit,” replied Ned, gloomily. “This letter was mailed on the train and shows only the railroad post-office mark. Evidently whoever wrote it intends to keep under cover. I wonder how many people know that the lease stands in Sam’s name?”
“Oh, probably a hundred, by this time!” declared Dick Somers, disgustedly. “I suppose Sam felt so important that he bragged of the thing all over town!”
But in this, Dick did the honest negro an injustice, for in spite of swelling pride which threatened him with suffocation, Sam had kept his secret faithfully. To his simple mind it thus appeared that the ghost of Eli Coleson must know his inmost thoughts and secret acts, and this idea had, as Tommy Beals expressed it, almost scared the daylights out of him.
“If we had the seventy-five dollars to plank down right now as advance payment in full for the lease, Sam might find it hard to cancel it,” suggested Jim Tapley.
“We’ll have the cash after the dance Saturday night,” declared Dick. “We’ll have to find some way to keep Sam away from the town hall till Monday—even if we have to kidnap him!”
“Suppose some of us have a talk with Sam and try to convince him that he is being made the butt of a joke,” suggested Ned.
“Well, it’s worth a try,” agreed Beals. “I’ll go with you right now,” and the two emissaries left the garage in a hurry.
Ned Blake and Tommy Beals found Sam slumped on a bench in the Beals garden, staring moodily at a long row of unweeded carrots.
“Nozzur, I ain’t gwine ter have no doin’s with dead folks—not any!” muttered the negro, when Ned and Tommy had broached the subject of their visit.
“But how do you know that Eli Coleson is dead?” argued Ned. “This letter was written on a typewriter and if it is really from Eli, why it proves that he isn’t dead, doesn’t it?”
Sam shook his woolly head obstinately. “Cain’t be sure of nuffin’,” he insisted.
“You’ve seen lots of ghosts, haven’t you, Sam?” asked Tommy Beals coaxingly.
“Suttinly I has! A plenty of ’em!” replied the negro, with deep conviction.
“Well, have you ever seen or heard of one that used a typewriter?” demanded Beals.
Sam was forced to admit that he never had, and Ned took advantage of this opening to discourse forcefully against such ghostly possibility. Like most of his race, Sam was readily susceptible to influence and after an hour of diplomatic argument, the boys succeeded in bolstering his resolution sufficiently to make it safe for them to leave him for the present.
“Do you think he’ll stick?” asked Ned anxiously, as he cast a backward glance at the negro, who had finally bent to his weeding of the carrot patch.
“I think he will—unless he gets another jolt of some kind,” replied Beals. “I’ll keep an eye on him till Saturday noon. The town clerk’s office closes at noon on Saturday, and after then we’ll be safe over the week-end anyhow.”
“Yes, and I’ll make it a point to be on hand with seventy-five dollars when the office opens Monday morning!” declared Ned. “I’ll feel a lot easier in my mind after that lease has been paid for in full. In the meantime we may discover who wrote this letter to Sam. If it’s only a joke, why let’s take it that way; but if it’s an attempt by somebody to interfere with our scheme, we’ll have to be on our guard.”
Two days passed with no clue to the writer of the warning letter. No further attempt had been made to frighten the negro and Sam had regained much of his usual self-confidence. Early on Saturday evening, the boys and Sam, whom they had hardly allowed out of their sight, wedged themselves into Dave’s flivver and arrived at the Coleson house in time to complete a few finishing touches before the first of a long line of autos turned in at the gate and parked among the scrubby oaks in front of the house. Tommy Beals stood at the open door to collect the admission fees and soon the rooms were filled with a gaily chattering crowd of young people who giggled and squealed their appreciation of the weird atmosphere of the place.
A hundred flickering candles cast an uncertain, wavering light over the decorations of flags and bunting which had been supplemented with dozens of black paper cats, whose white and yellow eyes made of daisy heads glared forth in baleful fashion. Numerous toy balloons, each decorated with phosphorescent paint to represent a human skull, were tethered in the dark corners, where they swayed and bobbed in the varying drafts with ghostly effect.
In the butler’s pantry stood Sam, attired in waiter’s dress, with a gleaming expanse of shirt front, and barricaded behind containers of ice cream and bottles of soft drinks for sale at profitable prices.
Promptly at eight o’clock the orchestra took its place, and the couples stepped out across the polished floor in time with the blare of syncopated jazz. For several hours dance numbers followed in rapid succession, the orchestra responding valiantly to encore applause, while black Sam, under the direction of Tommy Beals, did a thriving business in ministering to the parched throats of the perspiring dancers.
“Whew! It’s hot!” gasped Charlie Rogers, after a particularly long number in which his saxophone had carried the major part. “Can’t you open those north shutters, Ned, and let a little breeze blow through here?”
Laying down his trumpet, Ned crossed the room and threw open a shutter. Instantly a violent gust of wind swept in from the lake, extinguishing every candle and plunging the room into pitchy blackness.
A babel of voices burst forth at this unexpected occurrence, but was instantly hushed at sight of a strange spot of light, which made its sudden appearance upon the wall of the room. For a moment it remained stationary, then with a hesitating, uncertain movement, as though feeling its way, it advanced along the wall midway between floor and ceiling and vanished.
The breathless silence that followed was broken by a groan of abject terror from Sam. Somewhere a girl screamed hysterically. Closing the shutter with a bang, Ned fumbled for matches and relighted a candle. Several of the other boys followed suit and soon the room was again as bright as the rather dim flares could make it. The orchestra broke into a peppy foxtrot and the recently startled crowd, laughing gaily at what was seemingly one of the advertised “stunts,” swung again into the dance.
“Nice stuff, Ned!” applauded Wat Sanford, as he finished the number with a long roll of the snare drum and the customary crash of the cymbal. “That gave ’em quite a kick! How did you manage it so cleverly?”
“I’ll tell you about it later,” replied Ned. “They’re calling for an encore. Let’s give ’em a hot one.”
At midnight the dance ended and a line of automobiles streamed homeward through the darkness. Pausing only long enough to assure themselves that the house was securely locked, the boys and Sam followed after.
“How much did we take in, Fatty?” asked Dick Somers of the plump treasurer at his side.
“Eighty-six dollars for admissions and seventeen-fifty on the refreshments,” replied Beals. “Not so bad for the first night and I guess everybody was pleased with the way things went. By the way, Ned, that was quite a stunt of yours. Tell us about it.”
“Yes; let’s hear how you worked it,” urged several voices.
“Well, I’m glad you all approved of it, and I guess it satisfied such of the crowd as were expecting some haunted stuff,” replied Ned. “It’s too long a story to start on tonight. Sometime I’ll try to show you how it was done.”
At the outskirts of town, Sam was dropped at the gate of his humble dwelling, and hardly was the car again in motion when Ned startled his companions with this announcement.
“Boys, I didn’t want to mention it before Sam, for fear of scaring him worse than he’s scared already, but I’ll tell you now that the stunt you saw was no doing of mine. What that light was or where it came from I don’t know any more than any of you do—but I mean to find out!”
“Sam has quit on us!” announced Tommy Beals, as he joined Ned Blake and Dick Somers at the latter’s house on Monday morning.
“You mean he’d like to quit,” laughed Ned. “I got down to the town hall bright and early this morning and paid that lease in full, right up to the end of September. I met Sam as I was coming out and showed him the receipt. He gave me one scared look and shambled off toward home without a word. Has anything new happened, Fatty?”
“Well, it’s darned queer,” began Beals, taking off his cap and running his fingers through his stubby hair. “Sam came around to see me yesterday morning before I was out of bed. Usually he won’t move on Sunday, except to go to church, but yesterday was different. He hung around till I finished breakfast and then coaxed me out to the barn, where he told me about the wildest yarn I ever listened to.”
“Something he’d dreamed the night before, I suppose,” scoffed Dick.
“Maybe he dreamed some of it, and probably he drew pretty heavily on his imagination for the details,” agreed Tommy, “butsomethingmust have happened Saturday night, and whatever it was, it scared him foolish!”
“Do you mean after he got home Saturday night?” inquired Ned. “You remember we took him right to his gate that night.”
Beals nodded. “You know Sam lives alone in that shack of his and sleeps in a little room off the kitchen. He says that soon after he got into bed Saturday night he heard a queer noise. He sat up in bed to listen and there at the window he saw something that he insists was the face of Eli Coleson. Sam knew Eli well enough, and he swears he saw the old man with his white beard—copper stains and all.”
“What happened then?” asked Dick.
“According to Sam’s story, old Eli came right through the wall and struck at him with a pickax; but my own idea is, that if Sam thought he saw something white at the window, he was down deep under the bed covers about one second later. Anyhow, he’s so scared you couldn’t get him to go near the Coleson house again for a million dollars—and that’sthat!”
“Let’s take a walk down to Sam’s shack. I’d like to see what the place looks like by daylight,” suggested Ned.
“Good idea. Maybe we can find the place where old Eli went through the side of the house,” laughed Dick.
A short walk brought the three boys to Sam’s house, about which they prowled, peering in at the closed windows and examining the little garden where the negro cultivated a few vegetables and flowers. There was no evidence of a forced entrance into the house, but in the soft earth of a flower bed, just below the bedroom window, was the distinct imprint of a rubber-soled shoe.
“Does Sam ever wear that kind of shoe?” asked Ned as he pulled aside the foliage for a better view of the footprint.
“I don’t believe he owns a pair of rubber-soled shoes, and anyhow, his foot is two or three sizes bigger than this print,” replied Beals.
“Somebody else has been here, that’s sure,” declared Dick. “They’re taking a lot of trouble to frighten a poor inoffensive darky half to death!” he continued angrily. “A pretty cheap joke, I call it!”
“Maybe it’s not altogether a joke,” suggested Ned. “I mean there may be something else than a joke behind all this. Nobody ever bothered Sam before, but about as soon as it becomes known that he has a lease on the Coleson house there comes that letter, then that light out at the house and now this funny business here. All these happenings look like the work of the same hand. What’s the answer?”
“Somebody is trying to scare Sam into quitting his lease,” growled Dick. “It’s lucky for us that we blocked that game!”
“But who can it be, and why this sudden interest in the place just as we get started there?” complained Tommy Beals.
“Perhaps the answer might be found out at the Coleson house,” suggested Ned. “Are you two fellows game to go out there with me and scout around a bit?”
“How can we get out there?” asked Dick. “Dave’s gone away somewhere with the flivver and won’t be back till tonight.”
“Let’s take the Cleveland bus and get ’em to drop us at Cedar Hollow. It’s only a couple of miles through the woods from there,” urged Ned.
This plan was agreed upon, and shortly afterwards the three scouts were threading the thick undergrowth between Cedar Hollow and the lake.
“Here’s luck!” cried Dick, as they emerged from a tangle of underbrush into what had evidently once been a wood-road. “This old track seems to be heading about in the right direction. Let’s follow it.”
“Somebody else has been doing the same thing,” observed Ned, pointing to several broken twigs and torn leaves on the thick bushes lining the road. “There’s been a car, or maybe a light truck through here quite recently,” he continued, after a closer examination of the ground.
“Probably somebody has got a camp over on the lake-shore,” guessed Beals.
For half an hour the boys followed the grass-grown track, noting frequent evidence of its use by some vehicle, but as the country grew more open, these marks became fewer and finally ceased altogether when they reached the hard stony ground bordering the lake. The old road ended in what had once been a pasture, barely a hundred yards from the Coleson house, and the boys halted at the edge of the clearing to reconnoitre.
“We can’t be sure whether the car that came through this old road kept straight ahead to the house or swung into the traveled road outside the gate,” commented Dick, who was searching the hard-baked ground for a possible wheel mark.
“Unless the ground happened to be wet, a car or even a loaded truck wouldn’t leave a mark on this hardpan,” agreed Ned. “Let’s see if we can find any tracks on that stretch of sand between the house and the lake.”
Approaching the rear of the building, the boys scanned every foot of the sandy area which ended at the water’s edge. Not a single clue of any kind rewarded their search.
“There’s the range pole that helped to locate the sunken end of the mine when they were dredging it,” remarked Dick, and picking up a stone he threw it accurately at a long stake which stood at the water’s edge. “You remember, Ned, how the big dredge used to get itself into line with that stake and a white mark on the chimney of the house and then dig up the copper ore in bucketfuls,” and Dick hit the stake squarely with another stone.
“It’s funny how solid that stake is in the ground,” observed Ned as he noted the slight effect of Dick’s bombardment. “You’d think after last winter’s storms it would have loosened up or been knocked out entirely,” and Ned walked down for a closer look at the old range mark.
Dick and Tommy followed at a leisurely pace, which quickened at Ned’s exclamation of surprise. As they reached his side they saw the cause of his astonishment. The tall stake had been reset in the earth and its face, as seen from the lake side, bore a recently applied coat of white paint. For a moment they stared in wonder; then, as if in obedience to a common impulse, their eyes turned toward the house. Upon its broad chimney was a newly painted mark of gleaming white.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” cried Dick. “Now what doesthismean? Are they going to start dredging again?”
“Suppose they do? It won’t bother us, will it?” demanded Beals.
“Maybe not, and yet I can’t help suspecting that whoever put up these new range marks may be back of the attempt to scare Sam away from this place,” said Ned, thoughtfully. “I can’t imagine what their reason can be, but that’s up to us to discover—if we can. Come on; let’s have a look around at the front of the house.”
Everywhere between the gate and the building were tire tracks left from the autos that had parked there Saturday night, but it was quickly seen that nothing could be gained by examination of these confused impressions. As they reached the porch, Ned, who was in advance, stopped in his tracks and pointed to the front door. In the oak panel a nail had been driven and from it fluttered a scrap of paper.
“FROM THE OAK PANEL FLUTTERED A SCRAP OF PAPER”
“FROM THE OAK PANEL FLUTTERED A SCRAP OF PAPER”
Mounting the steps, Ned tore the paper from its fastening and spread it wide. Upon it was scrawled these words:
“I don’t want company here.“E. C.”
“I don’t want company here.
“E. C.”
“Are you going inside, Ned?” asked Tommy in a tone that was not much above a whisper.
“Sure! Why not?” replied Ned, squaring his shoulders. “We’ve got a legal right to this place!” and drawing the key from his pocket, he unlocked the ponderous door and flung it open.
Not a sound disturbed the cool darkness of the interior, and waiting until their eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, the boys entered cautiously, peering about with uneasy glances. Everything appeared to be exactly as they had left it Saturday night. The black cats glared unwinkingly with their white and yellow eyes, and the painted balloon skulls grinned in their corners. In spite of the fact that this ghostly atmosphere was of their own making, the boys were glad to regain the outer sunlight and lock the door behind them.
“Whoever is up to these pranks has apparently confined himself to outside stuff—thus far,” was Ned’s comment as he stared again at the crumpled paper still in his hand.
“What do you make of it? Is it a warning or just an attempt to scare us?” asked Tommy Beals.
“Either—or both, I’d say,” interposed Dick. “Anyhow, it’s very evident that we’re being urged to vacate. The question is, are we going to quit?”
“Let’s get the boys together and talk it over,” replied Ned. “Right now we’d best be making tracks to catch the next bus at Cedar Hollow.”
A group of excited boys gathered in Dave Wilbur’s garage that afternoon and listened to the astonishing story which Ned Blake and his fellow sleuths had to tell.
“So there is somebody else besides us who is interested in the Coleson house!” exclaimed Charlie Rogers.
“There seems to be no question about that,” agreed Ned, “and what is more, they evidently want the whole place to themselves.”
“But I can’t see why anybody should want to driveusout,” complained Tommy Beals in an injured tone. “We won’t horn in on their business—whatever that may be—if they’ll just lay off us!”