  There were many historic spots in Jockey Hollow. Arden had found out some facts from the library book, and Dick knew others gleaned in various ways. As they rode along they talked about it all. Dick pointed out rows of chimney stones where once had stood the log huts that housed the 10,000 men of Washington’s army camped in the Hollow that winter of 1779. Washington himself had a mansion in a near-by town long famous in history, Dick took pleasure in reminding them. Dick located a grove of locust trees, shrouded now in white where, he said, several hundred men of the unfortunate Continental Army had died and were buried along the banks of Primrose Brook which now was frozen over and covered with downy snow. “Well, when they get the park laid out and finished,” suggested Arden, “I suppose they’ll put up a bronze tablet somewhere around here to commemorate the valiant men.” “A pity they can’t keep the old Hall standing. That would be a fine monument,” suggested Sim. “It could be a memorial hall.” “The Hall is doomed,” said Dick sadly. “We have given up all hope.” He urged his horse ahead briskly. “He doesn’t know what you are going to tell Granny!” whispered Dorothy to Harry. “I hope something comes of it,” he remarked in a low voice. “At least, the whole matter will be thoroughly gone over, and if there is anything in her claim, and any money due her that can be paid, my lawyers will arrange it. They are smart men, I am sure of that.” It was almost dark when the riders returned to Sim’s house. Dick and the other groom went back with the horses. The ride had been enjoyable for all of them. “Don’t forget to let me know when you want to go out again,” Dick called with gay freedom. “If I can get money enough for an education out of my commissions from Ellery, that will be fine,” he suggested as he rode happily away. Terry was eagerly waiting for her friends when they got back. “What, no ghosts?” she exclaimed when they trooped in to tell her of their ride. “Not a ghost—not even scolded by Viney Tucker. She should have told us that we rode too long,” laughed Arden. “Viney, by the way, is out of the way.” “Where?” Terry asked. “Off visiting, so Dick says. Oh, but I’m hungry!” cried Sim. “Where is Moselle? You’ll stay to dinner, of course, Harry?” “Thanks, but I’m afraid I can’t. I want to get in touch with the lawyers on the telephone, and Dr. Thandu, to make sure that there will be no hitch in the plans for Granny’s Christmas party. And I shall probably need to put in calls and wait for answers. I’d be jumping up from the table off and on. No, I’ll go back to the hotel. I can phone nicely from there. But I’ll keep this invitation in reserve, if I may.” “Of course. Any time. This will keep.” Terry’s ankle was much improved by morning, though the doctor said she must not yet step on it. “In another day you may be able to hobble about the house on a cane,” he had said. “She will be an invalid with a most interesting limp,” declared Dot. That day Harry telephoned to say that matters connected with the legal aspects of Granny’s case were coming along most satisfactorily. “You will be able to assure her at the Christmas party,” he told Arden, “that she has the best chance she ever had to get something out of the estate. At any rate, if we fail, she will have the satisfaction of knowing that all that could be done has been done.” “And if it fails,” asked Arden, “will she and the young folks have to give up hope?” “I’m afraid so. But it’s better to give up a hope than to have it linger forever, isn’t it?” “I suppose so. Oh, I do hope it turns out all right!” “So do I.” Arden, who happened to answer the telephone to take the message from Harry, reported to the other girls, and Sim said: “I think we ought to go over to the Hall and see whether Harry’s idea of a warm and cozy room can be carried out in this cold spell.” “Not a bad idea,” agreed Arden. “Oh, I wish I could go!” sighed Terry, looking at her bandaged foot. “Don’t chance it!” warned Dorothy. “You’ll want to be at the party. I’ll stay here with you, Terry, if Arden and Sim want to prance down to the Hall and look it over.” “Let’s, Sim!” Arden exclaimed. “Only we won’t prance. We’ll go in the car.” To this Sim agreed and, the housekeeping plans for the day having been disposed of, she and Arden started out in the sturdy little roadster. It had stopped snowing, and the sun was shining brightly with a dazzling luster on the white ground. It was snappy and cold, so the girls wore furs and arctics, for they wanted to walk around near the Hall. That opportunity always fascinated them. Reaching the Hall, they tramped up the steps. Sim and Arden pushed open the heavy front door and stood with their heads just within the hall, listening before venturing in all the way. “No use taking any chances,” Sim remarked. “What chances?” Arden asked, though, as a matter of fact, the same thought was in her own mind. “Well, ghosts or some irresponsible workmen who might be camping out in here since they had the last sÉance.” “Or tramps,” suggested Arden. “Say, there’s a thought!” Sim exclaimed. “Perhaps tramps have been creating all this disturbance.” “Why would they?” Arden was discounting her own suggestion. “A band or bunch or school or congregation—whatever group tramps fit into—might have picked this place as hide-out, hang-out, or rendezvous, or whatever the proper term is,” said Sim, laughing. “And they might object to being dispossessed in the winter. They might even have hit upon the plan of making ghostly noises and manifestations to scare away the workmen. Then, if their scheme worked, they would be left in peaceful possession.” “But we didn’t find any tramps here,” objected Arden. “And Harry didn’t find any. And surely they would have piled back in here after the workmen had gone—if there is a gang of tramps playing tricks.” “Well, maybe I’m wrong,” Sim admitted. “Anyhow, there seems to be no one in here now, so let’s have a look at the room where we are to have Granny’s Christmas party. I’m game.” The old Hall echoed weirdly to their footsteps, echoes that always seemed to dwell in untenanted houses. But the girls were not nervous. They were only going into that one room which was close to the entrance, and if anything happened they could run out quickly. But nothing happened. There were no screams, not even a sigh, except that of the wind. There were no thumping boots coming down the stairs and no rustling red cloaks. “I think we can very nicely use this room,” said Arden, looking around the big long double parlor containing the immense fireplace and the picture of Patience Howe. “It can be closed off from the rest of the house. Not a window or a door has been broken.” “And with a roaring fire on the hearth,” added Sim, “we shall be quite cozy here. Anyhow, we shan’t be here very long. But I think your idea of telling Granny the good news here is just wonderful!” “Thanks,” murmured Arden. “I hope it is a spectacular success.” They did not wander through any other part of the house to see if they could collect enough chairs or other pieces of furniture for seats. They took it for granted that they could manage other details, and then, having made sure that the old chimney was unobstructed—they looked up and could see daylight—so the fire would not smoke, they finally left. “Let’s walk around a bit,” suggested Arden. “Why not?” agreed Sim. “Walking around here is our greatest outdoor sport.” They were well clothed and shod for tramping in the snow, so they began a circuit of the strange mansion. There was no sign, anywhere, that anyone but themselves had entered since Harry Pangborn made his investigation the day before. They walked down what had once been a lane, arbored with grapevines and hedged in now with ugly tall weeds that thrust themselves up through the snow. In the distance were some gnarled trees and a small stone building. They had not noticed it before, but now, against the white ground, it stood up boldly. “I wonder what that is?” asked Sim. “Let’s go see,” suggested Arden. They passed into the little grove of apple trees, Arden remarking how much some of them resembled those in the strange orchard at Cedar Ridge. Then she suddenly uttered a cry of delight. “What is it?” Sim asked. “Mistletoe!” “No! Really?” “I think so. Anyhow, it’s some sort of a bush with white berries on. Look!” “It does seem like mistletoe,” agreed Sim. “But I thought that was found only down South.” “I thought so too. But, anyhow, we can pretend this is mistletoe, it looks so much like it,” laughed Arden. “Why should we want to pretend? Let’s be bold and say it is mistletoe!” “Moselle might know the difference. But I’m with you to the hilt, comrade! Mistletoe it is!” Arden began quickly to gather the white-berried branches which, fortunately, broke off, making it unnecessary to cut them, which the girls couldn’t have done, as they had brought no knife. Sim was pulling at a particularly large branch when they were suddenly startled by hearing the creaking of a door on rusty hinges. Then a voice, almost snarling in its tones, called loudly: “What are you doing here?” Arden and Sim had walked along until they were close to the small old stone house. But they were so interested in gathering the mistletoe that they had not noticed the slow opening of the door. Then came the challenge. The girls swung about in startled fear and heard the rasping voice demand again: “What are you doing here?” |
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