  “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, “but something must 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’s that!” “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 does this mean? 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” Mounting the steps, Ned tore the paper from its fastening and spread it wide. Upon it was scrawled these words:
“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.” |
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