  A group of excited boys gathered in Dave Wilbur’s garage that afternoon and listened to the astonishing story which Ned Blake and his fellow sleuths had to tell. “So there is somebody else besides us who is interested in the Coleson house!” exclaimed Charlie Rogers. “There seems to be no question about that,” agreed Ned, “and what is more, they evidently want the whole place to themselves.” “But I can’t see why anybody should want to drive us out,” complained Tommy Beals in an injured tone. “We won’t horn in on their business—whatever that may be—if they’ll just lay off us!” Ned shook his head. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to get that idea across, Fatty. There’s something going on out there that we don’t understand; something that somebody is afraid we’ll get wise to. That letter to Sam and the ‘ghost’ he saw at his window were attempts to scare him away from the place. This paper nailed to the door is the next step and is meant for us. They succeeded in frightening Sam away; now the question is, are we going to quit?” “Not on your life!” yelped Dick Somers, whose wrath had been steadily rising during this discussion. “We’ve put a lot of money and hard work into this scheme of ours and I say stick it out!” “If they’ll be satisfied with trying to scare us with letters and ghost stuff, why we’ll be able to stay with ’em until we’ve got our money back anyhow,” said Beals, cautiously. “The dance crowd is looking for almost anything in the spook line and they will stand for quite a bit of it, but what worries me is the possibility that if ghosts don’t drive us out, something else may be tried—some rough stuff, you know.” “You don’t suppose old Coleson may have a hand in it after all,” ventured Wat Sanford. “Coleson? Not a chance!” declared Rogers, positively. “Coleson’s dead.” “Well, er—even if he is dead,” persisted Sanford, uneasily, “what if—” “Cut it out, Wat! Use your bean,” drawled Dave Wilbur. “As for me,” he continued, “I’m voting to keep the dances going till I get paid for all the hard work I did out there,” and Dave yawned wearily at the recollection of his labors. “It would be a shame if we had to quit now. Everybody is talking about our ghost dances, and there will be a big crowd out there next time,” volunteered Jim Tapley. “We may have a fight on our hands,” began Ned Blake, “but I’d rather fight than run, any time! As I see it, we’ve got to find out who it is that we are up against; what their game is; and why they think we are interfering with it.” “Rather a large order, as a starter,” remarked Dick. “However, it sounds interesting. What’s your plan, Ned?” “We ought to keep guard over that house night and day for a while,” was the quick reply. “Quite likely we are being closely watched, and it would be a good plan for us to do some watching. Two of us can take grub and blankets and camp there for twenty-four hours, or till relieved by the next two.” “That sounds reasonable. Who’ll volunteer to be the first sentry?” asked Dick. “We’ll draw lots,” decided Ned. This was done and the short straws were found to be held by Charlie Rogers and Tommy Beals. “All right, Fatty! We’re it!” exclaimed Rogers. “The sooner we start the better. Get plenty of grub and blankets and bring that big hammock of yours; it will come in handy!” The two left for home at once to procure the necessary supplies, and that afternoon Dave Wilbur deposited them and their belongings on the porch of the Coleson house. “Any last request you want to send back to the folks at home?” grinned Dave, as he backed the car around and headed for town. “Yeah, tell ’em to have a steak and onions ready for me at six tomorrow night,” sighed Beals. “It’s going to be hungry work hanging around out here!” “I wish we hadn’t floored over this opening into the cellar. I’d like to get a look down below,” said Rogers, thumping the solid oak with the heel of his shoe. “Not for me!” decided Beals emphatically. “I’m for minding my own business and I recommend that policy to you, Red, but if you’re curious, you can hunt for an outside entrance to the cellar. I should think there must be one somewhere.” Acting on this suggestion, Rogers searched diligently among the debris that lay along the foundation of the house, but without success. The heavy granite wall showed no opening and the masonry which sealed the mouth of the old mine-shaft was undisturbed. “Come on in and eat!” summoned Beals. Reluctantly, Rogers gave up his search and rejoined his companion, who was already making steady inroads upon the baked beans, bread and pickles that comprised the evening meal. Supper over, the two sat before an open window, watching the colors fade from the quiet surface of the lake. “I suppose we’ll have to take turns with the sentry stuff,” remarked Rogers, as darkness at last settled down upon the landscape. “I’ll stand watch till midnight and then you can take your turn for a couple of hours.” To this arrangement, Beals readily agreed, and climbing into the hammock, which had been strung across a corner of the room, he was soon asleep. For a while, Charlie Rogers sat, chin in hand, staring out into the deepening dusk. Along the northern horizon distant lightning was flashing and from this quarter heavy clouds swept up the sky, blotting out the stars and reducing the moon to a dim disc, which paled and faded behind the thickening canopy. Sounds of night life came to the ears of the watcher. Somewhere off to his left a giant bullfrog bellowed hollowly for a “jug-o-rum.” A night-hawk swooped past the window with a startling whirr of wings. From the woods on the far side of the house an owl hooted lonesomely. Rogers got up, stretched, and glanced hopefully at the illuminated face of his watch. “Only ten-thirty!” he muttered. “Gee! This is a tedious job! I thought it must be nearly midnight!” Returning to the window, he pillowed his head upon his folded arms and listened to the soothing splash of the little waves which a rising wind was sending upon the pebbly shore of the lake. His breathing became longer and more regular; his body sagged forward upon the sill. Once again came the hoot of an owl from the woods beyond the house and this time the cry was answered from a point closer at hand. It was the dull ache in his arms that finally brought Charlie Rogers to his senses. Again he consulted his watch. “Quarter past one!” he gasped. “Great Scott! I must have—” He paused in mid-thought and listened with every nerve a-tingle. Was he dreaming or had he really heard something? His pounding pulses were ticking off the seconds in his brain. Yes, there it was again! A metallic clink or rattle accompanied by a dull thud—faint but distinct. Backing away from the window, Rogers crossed the room with noiseless steps. “Wake up, Fatty! Wake up!” he gasped. “There’s something doing outside!” Beals was up in an instant and together they crept back to the window. The waves were breaking upon the beach now with a steady surge, but above their murmur a strange fluttering sound, not unlike the flapping of huge wings, came to the four straining ears. “It’s outside at the other end of the house!” breathed Rogers in a scared whisper. “It’s up to us to find out what it is,” replied Beals, and crossing the room with Rogers at his heels, he noiselessly opened the front door. A vivid flash of lightning, followed a moment later by the jarring rumble of thunder, greeted the boys as they traversed the porch and crept down the steps. Keeping close to the wall of the building, they made their way cautiously toward the end of the house and peered past the corner. The lightning flash had been succeeded by a pitchy blackness which their straining eyes could not penetrate, but the strange flapping sound had increased with their approach and the clinking rattle, as of metal upon metal, came at irregular intervals. “Lie low and wait for the next flash of lightning!” whispered Beals close to his companion’s ear. Crouched against the wall of the house they waited breathlessly. One—two—three minutes passed, and then once more the white glare of lightning blazed forth. Brief as was the flash, it afforded the boys an instantaneous glimpse of something that struck them dumb with amazement. Extending from the end of the house to the edge of the woods, a distance of more than one hundred feet, stretched a grayish something. It was not unlike a layer of mist or smoke; and seemingly knee-deep in its billowing, heaving folds, a bent, misshapen figure, like a gigantic hunchback, stood outlined against the grayness beneath. It was but a fleeting glimpse, for instantly the scene was blotted out and with the splintering crash of quick thunder there came a pelting rush of rain. “Beat it!” gasped Beals, and together the frightened boys raced for the door, and plunging into the shelter of the house, they shut and locked the heavy oak barrier behind them. |
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