  The proud old house rang with excitement. Nor was there any attempt to suppress it. When no one but the three girls, the faithful Moselle, and her daughter Althea were in it, there seemed no reason to go all the way up to Sim’s room when a lusty shout up the stairs would answer the same purpose. So Terry Landry stood with one foot on the bottom step, leaned against the banister, and again tried to make Sim hear her above the blatant music coming from the radio in the library where Arden Blake was supposed to be listening, but Arden, instead, was curled up in a big chair reading a book of ghost stories. “Oh, Arden! Will you please turn off that radio just a moment while I call Sim?” Terry spoke in those evenly spaced, overly quiet tones sometimes effectively used to prevent one’s temper from taking flight. “Hu—u—um!” came from the library as the radio was switched off. “What’s the trouble?” “No trouble at all. Only I’ve shouted three times for Sim to come down and get this letter. But she must be asleep or something.” “Letter? Let’s see!” Arden reluctantly closed the book she had been reading, uncurled herself from the depths of the chair, and came out in the hall to Terry, who said: “It just came, and it’s postmarked New York. Look at the size of the envelope. I wish Sim would answer!” Terry repeated peevishly. “Of course, you could go up, you know,” Arden suggested with a superior air. Terry did not answer but tapped her foot impatiently, bringing into play a shining black patent-leather opera pump that was vaguely reflected in the polished floor beneath. Terry wore lovely shoes. Arden took the letter and was examining it, front and back, feminine fashion. A leading jurist once said that if a woman was given a letter or any piece of paper she would, without fail, turn it over and look on the other side. Arden, however, was rewarded, for on the reverse, in large red letters, was the name “Rita Keene.” “It’s from Dot’s mother,” exclaimed Arden. “I suppose it says Dot can’t come. But I should think she’d be glad to have her daughter visit such lovely girls as we are.” Premeditated sarcasm here. “Are we lovely girls?” inquired a voice from the stair landing above. “Seems to me I heard a little shouting.” “Sim! Where were you? I’ve been shouting for ages!” Terry announced. “I know. I was phoning. I just called Ellery’s. I thought we could go for a ride through Jockey Hollow. It’s such a nice day, and we have the marketing done and everything.” Sim, a rather small light-haired girl, already dressed in riding clothes, was descending the stairs as she spoke. “Open this letter first. It’s addressed to you. From Dot’s mother.” Terry handed over the missive as Arden made this demand on Sim. “You could have opened it,” suggested Sim, carefully inserting a tiny shell-pink nail under the flap, in no hurry at all. “It says,” she began, “‘My dear Miss Westover: I shall be most happy to have Dorothy spend the Christmas holidays with you. I am rehearsing in a new play and would have very little time to give her. I know you will enjoy yourselves. Cordially, Rita Keene.’ That’s all. Oh, no, it isn’t, either. It says, also, that Dot will get here tomorrow on the eleven o’clock train. We’ll meet her,” Sim concluded. “Will you ask her, in due time, of course, to take her turn at doing the marketing?” Terry wanted to know. “A good thought,” murmured Arden. While Sim’s parents were spending Christmas in the South, Arden, Terry, and Sim had been entrusted with the running of the big town house. Arden and Terry were Sim’s guests over the holidays until it should be time to return to Cedar Ridge College, where they were freshmen. A last-moment idea had been to invite Dot Keene, also a freshman, to make one of the house party. Now, it appeared, Dot was coming. Although Arden and Terry had their own fine homes in Pentville, not far removed from the Westover residence, they thought it much more fun to come and live with Sim and help her manage over the Christmas vacation. Like all girls, they were sure they could do it if once given the chance. So when Mr. and Mrs. Westover decided to go South, and when it was impracticable, because of the projected length of their stay, to take Sim with them, they agreed to let the three girls try housekeeping. Moselle and her daughter Althea were there, of course, and would remain to do the housework. Moselle had been in service with the Westover family ever since Sim’s baby days, and Althea, blacker, if possible, than her mother, was learning the ways of a parlormaid and waitress. Henry, husband of Moselle, was driving Sim’s parents South in the big car. A small roadster had been left for Sim’s use. “I don’t know,” spoke Sim in response to the suggestion of Terry and its seconding by Arden, “I think I’ll have to wait until we are a little better acquainted with Dot before suggesting marketing to her. I wouldn’t like to embarrass her so soon. Which reminds me—what did you order for lunch, Terry?” “Lamb chops, baked potatoes, peas, salad, and some of Moselle’s special lemon meringue pie,” Terry answered practically, licking her lips in appetizing anticipation. “Good!” exclaimed Arden and Sim in unison. And it was good. “Did you make a date to ride today, or did I imagine it?” Arden next asked, getting back to the original subject. “I nearly forgot. Yes, I did. For half-past ten. You two hurry and change while I get the car out.” Sim was already starting out of the front door, while her companions, murmuring about Sim’s habit of letting things go until almost the last minute, dashed up the stairs to the bright pleasant room they shared in Sim’s home. It did not take them long to get into riding clothes; warm woollen underwear (for the weather was cold), heavy gloves, and hats pulled well down. Terry and Arden wore light tan trousers with darker coats, while Sim sported a dark green coat with cocoa-colored trousers. Looking “snappy” was the main idea. Soon the three were sitting in the little roadster, Sim’s last year’s Christmas present. They soon covered the short distance to the Ellery Riding School. The girls rode so frequently, every opportunity they had to be away from Cedar Ridge, that their favorite horses were ready for them when they arrived. Dick Howe, the young groom and helper around the stable, opened the door of the car. “Good-morning,” he greeted them pleasantly and with a smile that displayed to advantage his white even teeth against the background of well tanned cheeks. “Nice day for a ride. How long do you want to stay out?” “About two hours. What do you say, girls?” Sim asked. “Is that all right?” “Fine,” answered Arden. “But couldn’t we go a new way for a change?” “Yes, let’s go by Sycamore Hall,” suggested Terry. “Sycamore Hall?” questioned Dick. “Why not? We have time, and I like the hill there. It’s so nice for a canter,” Terry went on. “Certainly. Whatever you say,” Dick agreed, with just a shade of reluctance, it would seem. Their horses were led out, and Dick gave each of the girls a “leg up.” Stirrups were adjusted, and away they cantered. Dick was a very proper young groom. He gave them a little trotting, some walking, and just enough cantering. A good horseman, he sagely observed, never allowed his animal to get overheated, but saw to it that there was the proper amount of exercise for himself and his beast. Walking the horses, they reached the end of the paved highway and were soon upon the dirt road that wound around through a stretch of woodland into Jockey Hollow, a Revolutionary historic section just outside Pentville, which, though it was so comparatively near, had seldom been visited by Sim and her two chums. It was a lovely wooded place, containing, now and then, a cleared field. With Jockey Hollow in prospect, a pleasant ride was assured the little party, and, though they did not know it, the girls were to begin a strange adventure. Now well out into the open, the horses suddenly, of their own accord, broke into a trot with Sim and Terry in the lead. Arden followed with Dick. The day was cool for December, and the horses seemed to feel frisky. They liked it. “Don’t let him get going too fast, Miss Westover,” called the groom as he watched Sim. “We take that left turn.” Sim pulled her horse up, and Terry also stopped. They looked back at Arden and Dick to make sure of the direction to take next. Dick smiled and pointed to a lane leading down a hill. Sim and Terry went that way but more slowly. “This is a new way,” Arden said. “Do you know that road?” Dick smiled slyly as he said, “I ought to. I live down there.” “In Sycamore Hall?” Arden was surprised. “No, not in the Hall, but in a little house near it. With my grandmother and sister. The Hall is soon going to be torn down to make way for a new road through this section. Jockey Hollow is going to be made into a national park on account of it being connected in many ways with the Revolution.” “Oh, it is?” asked Arden, interested. This was news. But the truth of the matter was that though she and her chums knew, in a vague way, about Jockey Hollow, they had been, of late, so wrapped up in college life at Cedar Ridge, they had lost track of local matters. Arden, suddenly occupied with guiding her horse, which evinced a desire to shy, did not pursue the subject with Dick. Through the trees she now caught a glimpse of the two-hundred-year-old mansion known as Sycamore Hall. There were many stories about it, one or two concerned with the more or less established fact that it still contained certain objects supposed to belong to the descendants of the original owners, whoever they were. No one now lived in the Hall, nor had it housed anyone for some time. In spite of its age, the old mansion, though woefully lacking paint, was well preserved. It was as strong and sturdy as some ancient oak tree. Sim and Terry, in the lead, had approached Sycamore Hall and were waiting for Arden and Dick to reach them. The two girls gazed, not without interest, at the deserted mansion. There were evidences about it of some new and strange life. There were dump carts, but no horses, some piles of boards, and, near the drive, an old flivver that seemed impossible of being used. From within the ancient mansion came dull blows, as of pounding, and out of some open windows floated a fine dust, like smoke. “Is the place on fire?” asked Arden as she and Dick spurred their horses forward. “No. But I guess they’ve already started to tear it down. A new road is going right through the old place.” Dick seemed to sigh a little. “What a shame,” murmured Arden. “It’s too bad such a historic place can’t be preserved.” “I guess it’s too old to preserve,” Dick said. “Though they are going to make a park of the Hollow and save some of the smaller houses that were used by Washington or Mad Anthony Wayne or some of the Revolutionary folks.” “How interesting!” exclaimed Arden. “I wonder——” But she never finished that sentence. Just at that moment something happened. Two big Negroes, one carrying a crowbar and the other an ax, came fairly leaping out of the open front door of Sycamore Hall. They were mouthing something unintelligible and seemed to be rushing straight for Sim and Terry. “Oh! Oh!” gasped Arden. “Oh, Dick, what is this?” Straight for Sim ran the two Negroes, their ragged clothes white with plaster dust. They were still mumbling and waving their hands in a terrified way. This was too much for the nervous horse on which Sim was mounted. He reared sharply, nearly throwing the girl off, though she had a good seat, and then, wheeling, the beast ran wildly up the road past Sycamore Hall. Terry managed to control her animal, though he too showed a desire to bolt. “Oh, Dick!” cried Arden again. “I’ll get her!” shouted the young groom, and spurring his mount he dashed away after Sim. Left to themselves, Arden and Terry looked at each other with frightened eyes. The two colored men ran into the woods across from the Hall, still mumbling in a strange way and showing every evidence of terrible fright. “Come on, Terry, we’ve got to follow!” called Arden. They urged their steeds after those of Sim and Dick. When they reached the top of the hill they could see that Sim was safe. Dick had dismounted and was holding her still frightened animal. Sim was soothing the creature with neck-pattings and calming words. “Heavens, Sim! What happened?” gasped Arden. “Those men scared Teddy, rushing at him that way, though why, I don’t know. I wonder what the idea was, having them dash out in that wild way? If I had been standing a little nearer they would have run right into Teddy and me! They couldn’t seem to turn off. They were wild with fright. But why?” Sim was a little indignant. Dick smiled up at her. “Haven’t you heard?” he asked. “Heard what?” The other girls listened with interest. “Why, this old place is said to have become suddenly haunted. Something in Sycamore Hall has stirred up the spirits of the departed owners, and more than once the Negroes and Italians hired to tear it down have been scared away—frightened stiff. A lot have quit. I understand the contractor has continually to get new men. And it looked as if those two who ran out saw something—or thought they did,” Dick concluded. “They probably won’t come back.” “Haunted!” murmured Terry. “Ghosts—Revolutionary ghosts,” whispered Sim. “How thrilling!” exclaimed Arden. “Tell us some more, Dick.” “Well——” began the groom, but he got no further. Back up the hill came running the same two Negroes who had but a few minutes before rushed out of the mansion in such a terrified way. Their faces still bore signs of their fright. |
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