Here is a real boy story in real boy talk.

It is a first-class story to outline. Read it through—you will be so much interested that you can't help reading fast—then close the book and make an outline.

I am the ghost of Terrible Terry! I have murdered ten men in cold blood and buried their bones, in the dark of the moon, on the crest of Death-Rattle Hill! You will meet me there at dark on the evening of October 30! If you fail me BEWARE. (Following which was a crudely drawn skull and cross bones.)

"Gosh!"

That was all George Taylor could say as he read the letter which his father had just brought home in the evening mail. The mere thought of Death-Rattle Hill after dark was enough to make a fellow's heart jump into his throat, for Death-Rattle Hill had received its name from a popular superstition that grew out of the murder there, in pioneer days, of an old trapper.

This trapper, "Dad" Smith, as he was known on the frontier, was returning to his cabin in the wilderness, after selling his winter catch of furs, when he was attacked at dusk by "Terrible Terry", a notorious desperado of the early days. He was found the next day with more than a score of knife-wounds in his body.

Legend credited Terry with numerous other ghastly crimes until at last he met his fate in a manner which remains a mystery. His body was found in the woods not far from the spot where Smith was murdered. A rifle ball had passed through his throat. From then on stories were circulated concerning peculiar noises that could be heard at dusk on the hill. These noises, so the tales agreed, resembled a choking, gasping sound—such as a man might make in struggling for breath. So it came about that this hill came to be known throughout all the country as "Death-Rattle Hill."

"Gosh!" said Taylor once more as these thoughts went racing through his head. Then he jerked his cap from its hook in the hall and ran down the alley to see if any other of the boys had received a similar message.

Carrots Crawford, Pepper Perkins and several other members of the troop were talking excitedly.

"Hey, George," they called as the scout appeared, "did you get one, too?"

"Do you mean a letter from Terrible Terry?"

"Sure thing," said Pepper; "all the fellows got them. It's just another of Mr. James' stunts. Say, Scouts, remember that party we had at headquarters last Hallowe'en? Didn't we have a circus! And I'll bet this year we'll have a bigger time yet!"

After much discussion the group broke, and only Taylor and Pepper Perkins remained. If the departing scouts had been thinking less about the queer noises that were supposed to be heard on Death-Rattle Hill, they might have observed that these two leading lights of Glenwood troop had their heads together in earnest consultation.

It was ten days until the last of October; ten days filled with the greatest anticipation for the members of Glenwood troop; although every scout in the troop felt a peculiar sinking feeling at the pit of the stomach at the thought of Death-Rattle Hill, not one of them would have admitted it, and not one of them thought of failing to keep his appointment with "Terrible Terry", especially after the rumor was spread that each scout should go armed with a fork, a spoon and a tin cup. The boys agreed among themselves that they would meet at troop headquarters and march in a body to Death-Rattle Hill.

Hallowe'en evening came at last. The members of Glenwood Troop reported at their headquarters to a man, quaking inwardly if the truth were known, but prepared to keep their rendezvous with the ghost of a cut-throat in the most haunted spot in all the land! Great was their relief when Mr. James appeared and said he had thought it best to accompany the boys on such a dangerous undertaking.

They started out, rather more boisterously than usual, laughing, shouting and singing, but the nearer they got to Death-Rattle Hill the quieter they became. By the time they reached the crest of the hill they were huddled together like sheep.

"Here we are, boys," came the Scoutmaster's cheery voice at last as the scouts reached a little clearing between two tall Norway pines. Not far from one of the trees a huge bonfire had been built. Mr. James struck a match, the flames ran quickly through the dry sticks and logs, and in almost no time the clearing was light as day.

With the lighting of the fire, the spell that had been cast over the boys by thoughts of Terrible Terry was partially broken, and they entered into the games and stunts that Mr James had planned for them with their customary spirit.

With their hands tied behind their backs they tried to bite apples suspended from the branches of the pine by long strings and bobbed for apples in a big tub of water. They had boxing and wrestling bouts, dug pennies with their teeth out of shallow pans partly filled with flour, held a war-dance around the fire and yelled as only hungry boys can yell when Mr. James produced a pail of steaming cocoa, a big box of "dogs", a pan full of doughnuts, and a box of red apples.

But in spite of all they could do to forget the stories of Death-Rattle Hill they could not escape a vague, uneasy feeling, and many a furtive glance was cast into the surrounding trees and bushes.

When the last drop of cocoa had disappeared and the last red apple had followed the "dogs" and doughnuts to their doom, the boys crawled close to the glowing embers of the fire and, following their usual custom, begged Mr. James for a story.

The fire was slowly dying, and the occasional flickering flames cast fantastic shadows on the hazel bushes and the trees.

"We have all heard more or less about strange sights and sounds in places where men have met with violent death," said Mr. James by way of beginning his yarn. "For instance, I have been told that in this very clearing there grows a peculiar red moss which traces in exact outline the spots on the earth where the old trapper Smith's life-blood dyed the sod. Hunters have told me that no animals ever cross this clearing—that in the dead of winter not even a rabbit track breaks the smooth expanse of snow which is marred only by a ghastly crimson stain where poor old Smith's body was found.

"But let me get on with my story. Thirteen years ago this very night an old hunchback peddler, who had been selling his wares in the backwoods settlements, lost his bearings in the forest and found himself at dusk in this very clearing. Being completely exhausted from his wanderings, he decided to make himself as comfortable as possible for the night. He built a fire in the early evening, and, as the embers slowly settled into ashes fell into a half sleep leaning against his pack.

"Just how long he dozed by the fire he could not tell, nor could he remember exactly what wakened him, yet suddenly he was startled into consciousness, every nerve a-tingle with a sense of impending danger. Some power he could not sense drew his attention irresistibly to a huge pine tree—that one right there!

"With his eyes starting from their sockets he sat incapable of movement, waiting—waiting—when suddenly——"

Out of the pine on which every scout was focusing his gaze came an unmistakable choking, gasping sound.

An instant later a faintly glowing light appeared.

"Great goodness! Look there!" exclaimed Patrol Leader Crawford in a husky voice.

With a piercing shriek a horrible apparition floated out of the branches of the pine. Its white hair was covered with ghastly clots of red. Its arms waved wildly, moving the folds of a flowing white garment splotched with blood.

Transfixed with horror, the boys sat frozen in their tracks as THE THING rushed toward them.

Then there came a huge splash in the bobbing tub behind them and an unmistakably human voice exclaimed, "Oh, thunder!" The voice belonged to Pepper Perkins, and the Scoutmaster's flashlight revealed its owner in a sitting posture in the tub of water, whence he had fallen from a low branch of a tree directly over his head.

Meanwhile the "ghost" that had floated out of the pine was having troubles of its own. It stopped floating with a sudden jerk and hung suspended in mid-air, with a pair of khaki legs dangling beneath the flowing garment and kicking around for something solid to stand on, while a very unghostly voice pleaded, "Gosh, sakes! Can't you help a feller down?"

A few turns of the flashlight revealed the whole plot. The "ghost" had floated on a wire stretched from the huge pine to the smaller one across the clearing. The faintly glowing light was a flashlight enclosed in a paper sack, the horrible head-dress a piece of old fur robe smeared with red paint, and the "shriek" a siren whistle.

You have heard how Death-Rattle Hill came by its name. And now you know how it came about that George Taylor of the Glenwood Scouts acquired the name of "Terry"—a name which he bears to this day.