“I have an idea we might learn something by watching that shack,” suggested Ned. “It might prove to be the key to the puzzle. I had planned to lie out there tonight and see if anything happens. Does anybody want to join me?”
“‘A watched pot never boils,’” drawled Dave, “all the same, I guess maybe it’s up to me to do some of the watching. What’s the plan, Ned?”
“My scheme is to walk out there before dark and find a good hiding-place where we can watch both the road and the old shanty,” explained Ned.
“O.K. with me,” agreed Dave. “All except the walking. What’s the matter with taking the car and hiding it in the brush this side of the old road?”
“That’s all right, Weary,” laughed Ned. “Get a good supper under your belt and call for me about seven o’clock. And now, if there’s nothing more to be said, let’s adjourn, and remember to keep mum for the present.”
Promptly at seven o’clock Dave Wilbur’s car slowed down in front of the Blake house and Ned hopped nimbly into the seat beside the driver.
“It’s going to be a black night,” remarked Dave, as the car regained speed. “Look at those clouds piling up. Here’s hoping it doesn’t rain on us,” and he pointed to a low-lying bank that had appeared in the western sky.
“There’s a lot of wind in those clouds, judging by their ragged edges,” replied Ned, “but as for being a black night, all we want is light enough to find the entrance to the old road and locate the shack and the pile of slabs. I think our best plan will be to hide among the slabs, where we can watch both ways.”
Five miles out from town, Dave swung into an opening among the trees that lined the highway and forced the car far into the brush to screen it from the observation of any passer-by. “My guess is that we’re less than a mile from the entrance,” said Dave. “Can you find it?”
“Yes, I think so, although it’s getting dark fast,” was the reply. “We’d better stop short of the place and sneak into the brush. Somebody may be watching the entrance even at this early hour.”
Ten minutes’ brisk walk brought the boys to a point opposite a forked birch tree, that showed dimly white in the gathering gloom. Ned pressed his companion’s arm for silence. “The entrance is less than fifty yards beyond that tree,” he whispered. “Let’s circle around and hit the old road farther in.”
As noiselessly as two Indian scouts, the boys crept into the brush, and on hands and knees threaded the thickets until an opening in the foliage above their heads warned them that the wood-road lay close before them. In a moment Ned had dragged himself through the fringe of bushes and was peering to right and left along the shadowy track. For several minutes he lay motionless; then rose slowly to his feet.
“There’s no sign of anybody,” he said in a low tone. “Let’s work along to the slab pile.”
Without a word, Dave followed, and in a few moments they had crept into the shadow of the big pile which reared its irregular shape against the faint light of the sky, now rapidly fading into the darkness of night. A few rods to their left the outline of the shanty loomed dim for a time, but soon it had been swallowed in the velvety blackness.
“It’s darker than the inside of a cow!” growled Dave. “I can’t see half-way to the end of my nose!”
“Never mind about yournose,” chuckled Ned. “We’ll have to depend entirely upon ourears—unless somebody shows a light.”
For almost two hours the boys maintained their vigil, speaking but rarely and then in very low tones. Above their heads a rising wind was moaning through the tree-tops in an ever-increasing blast, which at times rattled the upper portions of the loosely-piled slabs.
“It’s raining,” grumbled Dave as a drop of water splashed on his cheek. “Confound the luck! ‘It never rains but it pours!’”
Moving with extreme caution, and not daring to use the small flashlight which he carried in his pocket, Ned felt about in the darkness till he had located several loose slabs. These he stood up against the pile in the form of a rough lean-to, which kept off some of the rain that soon began falling in a steady drizzle. Beneath this partial shelter the boys crouched, each devoutly wishing the other would suggest a postponement of the job, but neither willing to be the first to cry quits. Another hour dragged by, and then Ned suddenly shifted his position and laid a warning hand on Dave’s arm.
“What is it?” whispered Wilbur. “Did you hear something?”
“Footsteps!” breathed Ned. “Put your ear to the ground and listen.”
Dave did so and in a moment there came to his straining senses the jar of a cautious tread. A twig snapped in the darkness, followed almost immediately by a harsh scraping sound accompanied by a faint squeak. “Somebody has pushed open the door of that shanty,” he chuckled softly, “I remember the sound of that scrape and the squeak of the rusty hinges. It’s lucky we didn’t pick that for a hiding-place!”
“Sh!” warned Ned. “Look!” and he pointed toward the shack from the single window of which a gleam of light had suddenly appeared. The light was quickly extinguished, however, only to be followed a moment later by a faint glow higher up.
“What do you make of that?” queried Dave, as he strove to pierce the thick murk.
“Somebody has lighted a fire in the stove. That’s the reflection above the stove pipe,” replied Ned. “He’s covered the window with something to shut off the light.”
For a time the boys watched the glow as it wavered above the pipe and then Dave sniffed the air eagerly. “Coffee!” he growled. “My nose is of some use after all. Mister Somebody is having supper. That means more crumbs for those black ants tomorrow.”
“Yes, and I’m afraid it means a long wait for us,” grumbled Ned. “If that fellow has time for a feed, he probably doesn’t expect anything to happen right away.”
“I can’t say I care a whole lot for this,” complained Dave after a long silence. “It’s raining harder than ever and the wind is driving it through these slabs. There’s a small cataract running down the back of my neck!”
“Same here,” replied Ned. “That fellow in the shanty has got all the best of us right now; suppose we sneak over there and try to get a sight of him through a crack.”
For once, action of almost any kind was welcomed by Weary Wilbur, and rising to their feet, the boys began to pick their way cautiously in the direction of the shack. Half the distance had been covered when high above the dull roar of the wind and the steady drumming of the rain there sounded the shrill wavering cry of a screech-owl. It came from a point near the entrance of the old wood-road and was followed at once by the scrape and squeak of the shanty door.
“Down!” gasped Ned, and both boys flung themselves flat upon the wet ground.
They were not an instant too soon, for a scant ten feet to their right a flashlight beam cut the blackness, blinked rapidly in a succession of flashes, and winked out. At once there followed the jar of a cautious tread as the holder of the electric torch moved slowly away along the grassy roadway.
“Now’s our chance!” breathed Ned, and the boys slid back to crouch among the weeds at the rear of the shanty. Through the brush they could peer down the road toward its entrance, from which direction faint sounds came to their straining ears; but except for an occasional brief flash of an electric bulb they could see nothing.
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” grumbled Dave. “We can’t see a thing that’s going on!”
“Something is coming into the road. It’ll show up in a minute. Have patience,” urged Ned.
Five minutes passed and then came the soft crunch of wheels on wet grass and a black bulk barely discernible to the eyes of the watchers halted before the door of the cabin, less than ten feet from where they lay.
“What time is it?” growled a heavy voice.
The holder of the electric torch snapped it on and consulted a timepiece. “It’s ten minutes to midnight,” was his gruff reply.
“Cut out the glim!” came the quick growl of command and the light clicked out, but not before its thin beam had disclosed a small auto-truck with canvas top and curtained sides upon which the light glistened wetly.
“Is everything all jake ahead?” asked a third rasping voice from the front seat of the truck. “Curse this weather!” it continued, without waiting for a reply to the question.
For several minutes there followed a conversation carried on in a guttural undertone. The name “Irma” reached Ned Blake’s ears, also several disjointed phrases of which he could make nothing, except that they seemed to voice dissatisfaction with something or somebody. Once he caught the words “monkey business” followed by an expression of disgust. At length the owner of the growling voice was heard to climb aboard the truck.
“Look for us in a couple of hours,” was his parting word to the man who was already returning to his former place in the shanty, and then the vehicle moved away in the direction of Coleson’s.
Waiting until the scrape of the shanty door and the squeak of its hinges had assured them that its occupant was inside, the boys circled the building, seeking a crack through which they might catch a glimpse of him. The effort proved fruitless, for obedient to orders, he had cut off the light, and save for the faint glimmer above the smoke-pipe not a ray could be seen. Convinced at last that nothing was to be gained in this manner, the boys crept back to the doubtful shelter of the slab pile.
“That truck has gone out to Coleson’s and won’t be back for two hours,” chattered Dave, whose lanky frame was beginning to feel the ill effects of his thorough wetting. “I’d like to know what’s up,” he continued, “but I’ll say it’s a mighty damp way of finding out!”
“I wish we could have heard what those fellows were talking about,” remarked Ned, regretfully.
“All I could get was the name ‘Irma,’” grumbled Dave. “I suppose that means there’s a woman mixed up in this business—whatever it is.”
“I wonder,” mused Ned. “Maybe now—” he broke off suddenly.
“You wonder what!” grunted Dave unsympathetically. “‘Irma’ is a woman’s name, isn’t it?”
“I’ve got it!” exclaimed Ned eagerly. “‘Irma’ isn’t the name of a woman—not in this case anyhow—it’s the name of aboat! I saw her up at Cleveland last month. She’s an old steam-tug, and I’ll bet she’s the craft Dick and I saw come in close to Coleson’s beach last night!”
For a while the two discussed this possibility, but without arriving at any definite conclusion. Meanwhile, the wind had increased in force and the chilling rain was driving almost unchecked through the flimsy slab shelter. Grimly the boys stuck to their watching, and at last the gleam of a headlight brought them to their feet with a warming thrill of excitement.
“They’ve had to use their headlights to find the road!” croaked Dave in a voice gone suddenly hoarse.
“Only the dimmers,” replied Ned. “They won’t show any more light than necessary. Look!” he continued. “That fellow in the shack is on the job!” and Ned pointed to the flash of the torch which signaled the approaching truck.
“They’ll pass close to us! We’d better get farther back!” whispered Ned, and creeping from the lean-to, he slipped around behind the slab pile closely followed by Dave.
Pushing its bulk through the bush-lined roadway, the truck had arrived at a point opposite to where the boys crouched, when a sudden violent gust of wind lifted the slabs of which the lean-to had been constructed and flung them with a crash into the road directly in front of the oncoming vehicle. With a squeal of brakes the truck skidded to a stop and as its lights flashed into full power two men sprang to the ground and rushed forward, intent upon discovering what had happened. As the two came to a halt before the tumbled slabs, the glare of the headlights shone full upon them.
For an instant Ned Blake found himself staring at the two figures; one, muffled in a raincoat and with a cap pulled low above a swarthy face; the other, a tall man whose face glowed redly in the white gleam of the auto lamp. It was but a glimpse and then, on the moment, came the jar of running feet from the direction of the shanty, and a flashlight cut the blackness.
“Quick!” gasped Ned, backing into the bushes and dragging Dave after him. “Make for the flivver!” and stooping low, he started toward the highway.
“Whew! That was a close call!” wheezed Dave, when they pulled up at the edge of the state road. “Do you think they saw us?”
“I don’t believe so,” replied Ned. “The light was on them and the wind made a lot of noise to cover our movements. My guess is that after they have looked things over a bit without finding anything suspicious, they’ll come along with that truck.”
“And by that time we’ll be hitting the high spots for home!” ejaculated Dave. “The inside of that tin lizzie is sure going to look good to me!”
“Not so fast,” urged Ned as his companion started for the thicket where the flivver was hidden. “I’m for lying close here for a while longer. I’d like to see how that truck gets into the highway.”
“It’s so black we can’t seeanything!” grumbled Dave, who nevertheless made no further objection but followed Ned, as the latter, after hazarding a single brief gleam from his flashlight, succeeded in locating the entrance to the old road and crept silently beneath the tangle of vines close to the trunk of the great oak. Hardly were they settled in this new hiding-place when the pale gleam of dimmed lights came into view.
“Here she comes!” rasped Dave in his froggy whisper. “She’s feeling her way and taking no chances of hitting a tree. My guess is that she’s about where the tire-tracks leave off. Now we’ll soon see if she takes to the air—orwhatshe does!”
Even as he spoke, the vehicle, which had been slowly but steadily approaching, came to a halt and her lights winked out. Sounds of cautious movement came through the darkness and at irregular intervals a flashlight spat fitfully, revealing shadowy forms which seemed bent to a crouching position as they crept forward. The faint throb of the motor told that the truck was again in motion but, to the deep chagrin of the watchers, no ray of light showed. The threshing of foliage indicated that the curtain of vines was being pulled aside. Then came another halt followed by a muttered order and the jolting of a heavy vehicle as it forced its way past the obstruction and gained the highway beyond. Quiet for several minutes, broken only by the same cautious movements as before and the sound of some heavy object apparently dragged along the ground. Soon the scrape of a boot told that somebody was boarding the truck; its lights flashed full, and with a quick-grinding of gears it was off, heading along the road toward Cleveland.
As the sound of the motor died in the distance, Ned burst from his covert beside the big oak, and jerking the flashlight from his pocket, played its white rays to-and-fro along the narrow way. Except for flattened blades of grass, which in a few hours would recover their former position, there was nothing to suggest that a vehicle had passed but a few moments before. On the hard soil between the curtain of vines and the edge of the macadam road no single mark of rubber tires was visible.
“Well, by jiminy! This beats me!” exclaimed Dave. “How? And also why? That’s what I’m asking the water-soaked world!”
“That’s what Dick and I wanted to know—also Red and Fatty,” answered Ned. “Howandwhy. We didn’t get any satisfactory answer and neither will you and I by standing here. Let’s go home.”
Without a word, Dave led the way to his car and backing it out of the thicket headed back for town. “Not much to show for a night’s hard work—not to mention being half drowned in the bargain,” he croaked, as he let Ned out of the car at the Blake cottage.
“Not much, that’s a fact,” agreed Ned. “See you tomorrow.” But as he crept quietly up to his room and struggled out of his wet clothing, Ned Blake found himself faced with the problem of just how much he had best reveal to his companions regarding what he had discovered in that brief instant when the headlight of the truck had shone upon the faces of the two men.
Like a flashlight picture had come the remembrance of a short, thick-set figure muffled in a great fur coat, and of a tall, red-faced man called “Miller.” Yes, one of the men had been the mysterious passenger on theFrost King, but this time recollection had gone farther back to a day when, instead of a glistening wet raincoat, the man had been enveloped to the chin in the streaming rubber suit of a diver. There was no room for doubt. The man was Latrobe. And with this discovery there had come to Ned Blake the realization that behind the mysterious happenings out at the Coleson house there was something sinister; something fraught with real danger to whosoever might stand in its way.Ghosts!Latrobe was more to be feared than a whole houseful of ghosts! With the possible exception of Wat Sanford, none of the fellows took any stock in ghosts, but every one of them knew Latrobe by reputation. How would they react to the knowledge that they were dealing with this man? As for Ned himself, he was ready to pit his nerve and wit against anybody in defense of what he knew to be his right. Would the others support him against such an enemy as Latrobe? Should he risk the abandonment of their project out at Coleson’s by telling them what he had discovered? Morning dawned while Ned still wrestled with his problem.
“I’ll wait awhile anyhow,” he muttered, as he at last dropped into an unquiet sleep.
Ned Blake found himself still in a very uncertain state of mind, when he awoke at noon of the following day. After a meal which was a combination of breakfast and lunch, he set out for Dave Wilbur’s, only to be met half-way by Tommy Beals and Dick Somers with the news that Dave was sick in bed with a hard cold.
“He can’t speak above a whisper,” declared Tommy, who had been admitted to the bedside of the patient. “His mother says he’s got to stay in bed all day, and I guess that’s the proper dope, if we want him to be with us for tomorrow night’s dance.”
“What did you fellows find out there last night?” asked Dick. “I thought of you when I heard the rain pelting down. Did the shanty leak?”
“I can’t answer that,” laughed Ned. “Dave and I didn’t enjoy the comfort of the shanty—we let the other fellow have it.”
“What fellow—for the love of Mike!” cried Charlie Rogers, who had joined the group in time to hear Ned’s words.
“That’sanotherone I can’t answer,” replied Ned quite truthfully, and he proceeded to recount in some detail the adventures of the previous night, omitting, however, all reference to his discovery of Latrobe.
“I’d give a million dollars to know what this is all about!” exclaimed Rogers. “Of course, we want to keep on with our stuff, but I’d hate to get into a jam with a bunch ofroughnecks.”
This was exactly what Ned had feared, and he determined then and there to keep to himself—for the present at least—his knowledge of the identity ofoneof the “roughnecks.” Red Rogers was anything but a coward, and if he showed signs of wavering, there would be slight hope of keeping fellows like Jim Tapley and Wat Sanford in line. All the rest of that day, and much of the following, Ned devoted himself to making cautious inquiries concerning Latrobe, but beyond some evidence of the man’s unsavory reputation little or nothing could be learned.
“I’ll take a chance on tonight’s dance anyhow,” soliloquized Ned. “After it’s over, I’ll tell the boys what I know and let them decide what to do.”
Saturday night found the youthful population of Truesdell on tiptoe with expectation. Everyone who had attended the first “haunted” dance was eager to learn what new thrill lay in store for them, and those who had not been present on the opening night were doubly anxious to make up for their unfortunate omission by taking an especially active part in this second festivity. A considerable number of older people joined the crowd, ostensibly as chaperones for their daughters, but actually with a secret desire to learn what it was all about. The boys were early on the scene, including Dave Wilbur, who had recovered sufficiently to do his part although his voice sounded not much unlike the drawling croak of a bullfrog.
“Whew!” gasped Tommy Beals, as he stood just inside the front door of the Coleson house and ran his handkerchief around inside his wilted collar. “I’ve taken in ninety-five admissions and answered a couple of hundred questions about ghosts, and the crowd is still coming!”
“I’m hoping we have enough eats and drinks for this mob,” remarked Wat Sanford, who, in Sam’s absence, was preparing the refreshments. “If Fatty wilts just taking tickets and answering questions, I pity him when he starts passing out ice cream.”
“I wish we had fixed up a few good ghost stunts for tonight,” said Charlie Rogers, as he stood beside Ned watching the couples pour in at the front door. “This crowd is all keyed up for a wild time and I’d hate to see ’em disappointed—as they will be if nothing happens.”
“What’s worrying me is the fear that toomuchmay happen,” replied Ned, anxiously.
“Meaning what?” queried Rogers.
“Well,” resumed Ned, “you and Fatty got a pretty good-sized scare the night you were out here, and Dick and I saw enough to keep us wondering ever since.”
“Yes, I was scared all right,” admitted Rogers, “—just the two of us here alone, you know—but with all this gang here you don’t think that—” and Rogers paused for want of just the right words to express his doubt.
“I don’t know what to think,” was the sober reply. “The whole thing seems impossible—and yet it has happened. One thing I’m sure of: there isn’t going to be room much longer on these premises for us and for whoever or whatever else is trying to occupy them. As you say, Red, this crowd has been led to expect some weird stuff and yet it might easily be thrown into a panic, which would mean the end of things for us. You and Fatty and Dick and I have seen enough to make us certain that something more than child’s play is going on around here. What it is or what it will lead to, I can’t even guess, but I’ll admit I’m worried.”
“Me, too,” grumbled Dick Somers, who had joined the other two in time to hear Ned’s words. “Why, hang it! somebody might take a crazy notion to blow up the whole shebang—same as Eli Coleson blew up his old farm house when he wanted to build this one.”
“Coleson!” muttered Rogers under his breath. “You don’t suppose—”
“Come on, you fellows!” interrupted Jim Tapley, striking a chord on the piano. “It’s eight o’clock. Let’s tune up and get going!”
The dance was quickly under way, and for several hours the whirl of gaiety continued with nothing more ghostly to offer than the painted balloons and black paper cats. As midnight drew near, the orchestra concluded a peppy fox-trot and made ready to close with the usual wailing syncopation of “Home, Sweet Home.”
“I guess you had your worry for nothing, Ned,” whispered Charlie Rogers. “In fact, the thing has been almost too tame. Don’t you think so?”
“Maybe it has,” began Ned, “but just the same I—”
His words were cut short by a shriek which arose from a group on the porch. Half a dozen frightened girls came plunging in through the doorway, which was instantly jammed with excited people, some making frantic efforts to get inside and away from something, while others struggled in an attempt to get out and see what had happened. For several minutes confusion reigned, but the braver spirits who had been investigating outside soon returned with the report that they could find nothing to cause alarm. Of the group which had been upon the porch, only a few claimed actually to have seen anything, but these were unshaken in their statement that a shadowy figure had appeared at the corner of the house nearest to the woods.
Charlie Rogers and Tommy Beals exchanged a half-frightened glance, suggestive of their belief in this story; but of the dancers, nearly everybody considered it either an hallucination or at most a joke, and as the strains of the final number arose, the dance was resumed and carried to its completion without further interruption. The foremost of the departing crowd had reached the line of parked cars and the rest were streaming out across the porch when their gay chatter was silenced by a sudden cry.
“There it is again! Look! Look! There, by the corner of the house!”
All eyes turned in the direction indicated and saw outlined in the dimness a shadowy figure standing motionless. For perhaps five seconds nobody spoke or moved; then an occupant of one of the automobiles switched on a headlight and the vivid glare disclosed the form of a man with a long white beard who bore upon his shoulder what appeared to be a pickax.
As the blinding light flashed upon it, the apparition threw up an arm as if to shield its eyes, took a step forward, and dropping the pick from its shoulder, struck it into the ground.
At the first cry of alarm, Ned Blake had rushed out upon the porch closely followed by Dick Somers, and as the weird figure raised its pick for a second swing, both boys sprang from the porch and dashed directly toward the ghostly visitant. For an instant the figure seemed to hesitate; then it turned swiftly and vanished round the corner of the house.
Ned Blake and Dick Somers turned the corner in a breathless rush. Before them lay the open stretch of sand, extending from the end of the house to the fringe of bushes some thirty yards distant. Above the line of trees the late moon hung in the eastern sky, shedding a soft light by which the boys saw clearly the stretch of sand, the fringing bushes, the foundation wall of the house—and nothing else.
“It’s gone!” gasped Ned, staring with unbelieving eyes at the space before him.
“Yes, but where?” cried Dick. “We weren’t five seconds behind when it turned this corner, and there isn’t cover enough between here and the woods for a rabbit to hide in!”
Emboldened by the example of Ned and Dick, several of the men and boys came hurrying forward. Somebody produced a flashlight by means of which a careful search of the vicinity was made but without result. Borrowing the light, Ned made a minute examination of the ground along the foundation wall. The surface was littered with fragments of slate from the roof, but ten feet from the corner of the house a bare patch of sand showed amid the debris and upon this small yellow area a faint mark caught Ned’s eye. With a quick sweep of his hand he effaced the impression and after a few minutes of further search, returned the flashlight to its owner.
“Of course it’s all a hoax,” declared a gentleman, who had kept well in the background while the search was in progress.
“That’s right,” agreed a second, “I guess those two lads had some hand in it—else they wouldn’t have rushed forward the way they did.”
“Well, if it was a trick, I’ll call it a clever one and mighty well carried out,” remarked another, as he returned to his car when the hunt had finally been abandoned.
This seemed to be the general opinion among the guests as they slowly dispersed. Jim Tapley and Wat Sanford had accepted invitations to ride home with friends and made a hasty departure, leaving the other boys to lock up the house and return in Dave Wilbur’s flivver. As the last of the departing cars went honking down the drive, Ned Blake turned to his four companions.
“Fellows,” he began in a voice that betrayed his suppressed excitement, “I found something out there at the end of the house that I didn’t mention at the time!”
“What was it?” asked Beals.
“It was a footprint!” replied Ned.
“Yeah, I saw a hundred of ’em,” drawled Dave Wilbur. “Half the dance crowd walked all over that stretch of sand.”
“The footprint I saw wasn’t made by a dancing shoe,” replied Ned. “It was made by a rubber sole.”
“That’s what we found outside Sam’s window!” cried Dick.
“And as nearly as I could see with the flashlight, it was a print of the same shoe,” was Ned’s calm response.
“Whew! If that’s a fact, why I feel like apologizing to Sam!” mumbled Tommy. “I don’t wonder he was scared!”
“What do you make of it, Ned?” asked Charlie Rogers.
Ned Blake turned and walked to the door to gaze with troubled eyes out upon the moonlit strip of sand, beyond which the line of scrubby oaks lay dim and shadowy. In a moment he again faced the group who were watching him curiously. “Fellows, there’s something I’ve got to tell you before we go any further with this business.” Ned paused as if to choose his words and continued. “We’ve been trying to find the answer to two questions, namely,whoandwhy. The night Dave and I watched the old road I settled the first question, and the answer is—Latrobe!”
For a few minutes after this disclosure, the excited questioning kept Ned busy recounting such meager facts as were in his possession. “I don’t need to tell you fellows that any business we may try to carry on against Latrobe’s wishes is likely to be hard going—if not actually dangerous.” was Ned’s final comment.
“What do you propose?” asked Rogers.
Ned’s answer was prompt. “Somebody started something out here a few minutes ago. I’m wondering how many of us are game to finish out the night right here and see what else may happen.”
“Count on me for one,” was Dick’s quick reply.
Rogers and Beals, after an exchange of questioning glances, declared their willingness to remain.
“Oh, all right. I’ll stick around with you,” croaked Dave Wilbur, “that is, I will if I can stay inside, but when it comes to another night of camping on the cold, cold ground, there’s nothing doing.”
“That’s all right, Dave,” agreed Ned. “We’ll make you inside sentry,” and without further loss of time, Wilbur set about arranging a row of chairs upon which he stretched his lanky frame.
“Now, fellows,” continued Ned, “this is what I propose: Red and Fatty will hide in that clump of oaks beyond the driveway and watch the front and west end of the house. Dick and I will guard the rear side and the east end. If either party sees or hears anything suspicious, follow it up and yell a plenty if help is needed. We’ll try to capture this rubber-soled ghost, if he shows himself again.”
Ned Blake and Dick Somers had secreted themselves among the bushes in such position that they could see any movement that might take place at the rear of the house or along its eastern end. The moon was now well above the woods and, although in its last quarter, it still gave sufficient light to make near-by objects dimly visible. From their place of concealment the boys could look out upon the shadowy surface of the lake, and many an anxious glance was turned that way, prompted by the remembrance of the craft whose mysterious movements had so puzzled them a few nights before. For the most part, however, their attention was fixed upon the great house, which loomed black and sinister, save where the feeble moonlight silvered the slate roof and touched the gleaming white range-mark on the chimney. Oppressed by the ominous silence, the boys exchanged but few whispered words and moved only when necessary to relieve cramped muscles. An hour passed, and then Ned grasped his companion’s arm and pointed to a dark object that had made its sudden appearance at the end of the house.
“What is it! Where did it come from!” Dick’s whisper was a gasp of excitement.
“I don’t know,” breathed Ned. “I didn’t see it till it moved! Hist! Lie low! It’s coming this way!”
The black shape, scarcely more than a blotch against the dark background of the house wall, seemed to creep along the ground till the corner was reached. Here it slowly straightened to the form of a man and, after a moment’s hesitation, stepped out upon the moonlit strip of sand which it crossed with noiseless tread. Ten feet from the boys’ hiding-place it stopped as if to listen.
“NED BROUGHT HIM DOWN WITH A HARD DIVING TACKLE”
“NED BROUGHT HIM DOWN WITH A HARD DIVING TACKLE”
“Now!” yelled Ned, and springing to his feet, he dashed straight at the figure which turned in its tracks and fled with desperate speed back across the open space toward the house.
“Help! Help! Head him off!” shouted Dick, and at the sound of his cry, Rogers and Beals leaped from their places.
But the flying figure never got past the end of the house. Ned Blake, running like an antelope, overtook and brought it down with a hard diving tackle. A furious struggle ensued, for the “ghost” proved to be a decidedly tough customer in a rough and tumble fight. Over and over rolled the combatants, Ned striving desperately to retain his leg hold, while Dick, who had been but a leap behind his leader’s dash, used every ounce of his own supple strength in a frantic effort to pinion the threshing arms. Charlie Rogers, flashing into view around the corner of the house, brought timely reinforcement, and Tommy Beals, puffing painfully from his own hard run, signalized his somewhat late arrival and at the same time ended the battle by catapulting his ample weight full upon the mid-section of the prostrate “ghost,” from whose body the breath was expelled in a loud “Hah!”
Aroused by the shouts of combat, Dave Wilbur rushed to the scene and assisted the victors to carry their semi-conscious prisoner to the house. A candle was quickly brought and as its light shone upon the distorted features the boys fell back with a cry of amazement. It was the face of Slugger Slade.
“Holy cat!” yelped Charlie Rogers. “What the blazes ishedoing here?”
“Just this minute he’s trying to recover his breath that Fatty knocked out of him,” replied Ned. “We’d better make sure of him while we have the chance,” and slipping off his belt, Ned confined the slugger’s arms behind his back. Dick hastened to bind the ankles in like manner, and when this had been done, the prisoner was hoisted to a chair.
“Well—what are you—going to do—about it?” gasped Slade with his first returning breath.
“First of all we’re going to ask whatyouare doing on our property,” replied Ned, sternly. “If your answers aren’t satisfactory to us, we will take you back to Truesdell and turn you over to the police.”
“All right then, if you want the truth, I was just hiding out here to scare you fellows—just for the fun of it,” sneered Slade, at the same time flexing his great muscles in a testing strain on the strap which bound his arms.
“It’s no use pulling at that belt,” advised Dick. “That’s the same belt you fooled with once before. It beat you then and it’s going to be too much for you this time.”
Slade received the taunt with an ugly scowl and turned to Ned Blake. “Well, now that you’ve heard my explanation, what do you say?” he demanded.
“Why, I’d say that as an explanation it leaves too many things unaccounted for,” replied Ned, evenly.
“What things?” growled Slade.
“Oh, little matters—like phony letters, and warnings, and ghost tricks, all calculated to interfere with our business,” suggested Ned. “We want to know what your object was.”
“Just like I told you a minute ago,” persisted Slade. “I was trying to scare you fellows off the place. I worked it with the nigger, but—”
“Who sent you out here?” interrupted Beals.
“Nobody sent me,” growled Slade with an obstinate shake of his big head. “I just came of my own accord, and that’s all I’ll tell you—or the cops either!”
“Very well then, perhaps you’ll listen while I tell you something,” began Ned, quietly. “You are one of a gang that is making some use of this property of ours. The tugIrmacomes close to shore here and picks up the old dredge ranges. A truck makes night trips back and forth through that old wood-road between here and the Cleveland highway. Now, who besides yourself is mixed up in this and what is it all about?”
Slade maintained a sullen silence, and after a moment Ned continued. “I’ll tell you who two of them are,” he said deliberately and without taking his eyes from Slade’s face. “One is a tall, red-faced man named Miller and the other is—Latrobe.”
“That’s what you’reguessing,” sneered Slade. “The chances are you’ve never set eyes on Latrobe.”
“Yes, I’ve seen him three times,” was the quiet reply. “Once when he wore a diving-suit, and again when he rode up to Cleveland on my ice-boat; but the last time I saw him was when he was talking to Miller out in the old wood-road last Thursday night.”
At these words, Slade straightened in his chair with an involuntary start of surprise and the furtive look that flashed into his black eyes proved a sudden inspiration to Ned, who was watching him keenly.
“You remember, Slade,” Ned continued in a tone of assurance. “You remember how the slabs fell down and Latrobe and Miller jumped out of the truck?Youwere in the shanty, signaling with a flashlight.”
“Where wereyou?” The question burst from Slade’s throat in a gasp of astonishment, which was ample confirmation of the correctness of Ned’s guess.
“Oh, we were behind the pile of slabs—Dave Wilbur and I,” laughed Ned.
“Yeah, I’ll say we were!” exclaimed Dave in his wheezy whisper. “We were there all right—but I’ve learned a lot more in the last minute than I suspected then!”
“Now, Slade,” resumed Ned, and the laugh was gone from his face and also from his voice, “you may as well tell us the whole truth. Let’s begin at the beginning. Who sent you out here?”
“Latrobe,” admitted Slade. “I’ve got a job with him over across the lake in Canada.”
“And your job was to scare us away from this house?”
“Yeah, that was it,” acknowledged Slade.
“Why did Latrobe want to get rid of us?” persisted Ned.
Slade shrugged his heavy shoulders and moistened his lips. “Latrobe doesn’t give his reasons for what he wants,” he muttered.
“How did you manage to appear and disappear so quickly?” demanded Rogers. “Where were you hiding?”
“Oh, I was laying out in the brush,” replied Slade, who seemed more ready to answer when the questions concerned himself instead of his employer.