  Promptly at seven o’clock Dave Wilbur’s car slowed down in front of the Blake house and Ned hopped nimbly into the seat beside the driver. “It’s going to be a black night,” remarked Dave, as the car regained speed. “Look at those clouds piling up. Here’s hoping it doesn’t rain on us,” and he pointed to a low-lying bank that had appeared in the western sky. “There’s a lot of wind in those clouds, judging by their ragged edges,” replied Ned, “but as for being a black night, all we want is light enough to find the entrance to the old road and locate the shack and the pile of slabs. I think our best plan will be to hide among the slabs, where we can watch both ways.” Five miles out from town, Dave swung into an opening among the trees that lined the highway and forced the car far into the brush to screen it from the observation of any passer-by. “My guess is that we’re less than a mile from the entrance,” said Dave. “Can you find it?” “Yes, I think so, although it’s getting dark fast,” was the reply. “We’d better stop short of the place and sneak into the brush. Somebody may be watching the entrance even at this early hour.” Ten minutes’ brisk walk brought the boys to a point opposite a forked birch tree, that showed dimly white in the gathering gloom. Ned pressed his companion’s arm for silence. “The entrance is less than fifty yards beyond that tree,” he whispered. “Let’s circle around and hit the old road farther in.” As noiselessly as two Indian scouts, the boys crept into the brush, and on hands and knees threaded the thickets until an opening in the foliage above their heads warned them that the wood-road lay close before them. In a moment Ned had dragged himself through the fringe of bushes and was peering to right and left along the shadowy track. For several minutes he lay motionless; then rose slowly to his feet. “There’s no sign of anybody,” he said in a low tone. “Let’s work along to the slab pile.” Without a word, Dave followed, and in a few moments they had crept into the shadow of the big pile which reared its irregular shape against the faint light of the sky, now rapidly fading into the darkness of night. A few rods to their left the outline of the shanty loomed dim for a time, but soon it had been swallowed in the velvety blackness. “It’s darker than the inside of a cow!” growled Dave. “I can’t see half-way to the end of my nose!” “Never mind about your nose,” chuckled Ned. “We’ll have to depend entirely upon our ears—unless somebody shows a light.” For almost two hours the boys maintained their vigil, speaking but rarely and then in very low tones. Above their heads a rising wind was moaning through the tree-tops in an ever-increasing blast, which at times rattled the upper portions of the loosely-piled slabs. “It’s raining,” grumbled Dave as a drop of water splashed on his cheek. “Confound the luck! ‘It never rains but it pours!’” Moving with extreme caution, and not daring to use the small flashlight which he carried in his pocket, Ned felt about in the darkness till he had located several loose slabs. These he stood up against the pile in the form of a rough lean-to, which kept off some of the rain that soon began falling in a steady drizzle. Beneath this partial shelter the boys crouched, each devoutly wishing the other would suggest a postponement of the job, but neither willing to be the first to cry quits. Another hour dragged by, and then Ned suddenly shifted his position and laid a warning hand on Dave’s arm. “What is it?” whispered Wilbur. “Did you hear something?” “Footsteps!” breathed Ned. “Put your ear to the ground and listen.” Dave did so and in a moment there came to his straining senses the jar of a cautious tread. A twig snapped in the darkness, followed almost immediately by a harsh scraping sound accompanied by a faint squeak. “Somebody has pushed open the door of that shanty,” he chuckled softly, “I remember the sound of that scrape and the squeak of the rusty hinges. It’s lucky we didn’t pick that for a hiding-place!” “Sh!” warned Ned. “Look!” and he pointed toward the shack from the single window of which a gleam of light had suddenly appeared. The light was quickly extinguished, however, only to be followed a moment later by a faint glow higher up. “What do you make of that?” queried Dave, as he strove to pierce the thick murk. “Somebody has lighted a fire in the stove. That’s the reflection above the stove pipe,” replied Ned. “He’s covered the window with something to shut off the light.” For a time the boys watched the glow as it wavered above the pipe and then Dave sniffed the air eagerly. “Coffee!” he growled. “My nose is of some use after all. Mister Somebody is having supper. That means more crumbs for those black ants tomorrow.” “Yes, and I’m afraid it means a long wait for us,” grumbled Ned. “If that fellow has time for a feed, he probably doesn’t expect anything to happen right away.” “I can’t say I care a whole lot for this,” complained Dave after a long silence. “It’s raining harder than ever and the wind is driving it through these slabs. There’s a small cataract running down the back of my neck!” “Same here,” replied Ned. “That fellow in the shanty has got all the best of us right now; suppose we sneak over there and try to get a sight of him through a crack.” For once, action of almost any kind was welcomed by Weary Wilbur, and rising to their feet, the boys began to pick their way cautiously in the direction of the shack. Half the distance had been covered when high above the dull roar of the wind and the steady drumming of the rain there sounded the shrill wavering cry of a screech-owl. It came from a point near the entrance of the old wood-road and was followed at once by the scrape and squeak of the shanty door. “Down!” gasped Ned, and both boys flung themselves flat upon the wet ground. They were not an instant too soon, for a scant ten feet to their right a flashlight beam cut the blackness, blinked rapidly in a succession of flashes, and winked out. At once there followed the jar of a cautious tread as the holder of the electric torch moved slowly away along the grassy roadway. “Now’s our chance!” breathed Ned, and the boys slid back to crouch among the weeds at the rear of the shanty. Through the brush they could peer down the road toward its entrance, from which direction faint sounds came to their straining ears; but except for an occasional brief flash of an electric bulb they could see nothing. “This isn’t getting us anywhere,” grumbled Dave. “We can’t see a thing that’s going on!” “Something is coming into the road. It’ll show up in a minute. Have patience,” urged Ned. Five minutes passed and then came the soft crunch of wheels on wet grass and a black bulk barely discernible to the eyes of the watchers halted before the door of the cabin, less than ten feet from where they lay. “What time is it?” growled a heavy voice. The holder of the electric torch snapped it on and consulted a timepiece. “It’s ten minutes to midnight,” was his gruff reply. “Cut out the glim!” came the quick growl of command and the light clicked out, but not before its thin beam had disclosed a small auto-truck with canvas top and curtained sides upon which the light glistened wetly. “Is everything all jake ahead?” asked a third rasping voice from the front seat of the truck. “Curse this weather!” it continued, without waiting for a reply to the question. For several minutes there followed a conversation carried on in a guttural undertone. The name “Irma” reached Ned Blake’s ears, also several disjointed phrases of which he could make nothing, except that they seemed to voice dissatisfaction with something or somebody. Once he caught the words “monkey business” followed by an expression of disgust. At length the owner of the growling voice was heard to climb aboard the truck. “Look for us in a couple of hours,” was his parting word to the man who was already returning to his former place in the shanty, and then the vehicle moved away in the direction of Coleson’s. Waiting until the scrape of the shanty door and the squeak of its hinges had assured them that its occupant was inside, the boys circled the building, seeking a crack through which they might catch a glimpse of him. The effort proved fruitless, for obedient to orders, he had cut off the light, and save for the faint glimmer above the smoke-pipe not a ray could be seen. Convinced at last that nothing was to be gained in this manner, the boys crept back to the doubtful shelter of the slab pile. “That truck has gone out to Coleson’s and won’t be back for two hours,” chattered Dave, whose lanky frame was beginning to feel the ill effects of his thorough wetting. “I’d like to know what’s up,” he continued, “but I’ll say it’s a mighty damp way of finding out!” “I wish we could have heard what those fellows were talking about,” remarked Ned, regretfully. “All I could get was the name ‘Irma,’” grumbled Dave. “I suppose that means there’s a woman mixed up in this business—whatever it is.” “I wonder,” mused Ned. “Maybe now—” he broke off suddenly. “You wonder what!” grunted Dave unsympathetically. “‘Irma’ is a woman’s name, isn’t it?” “I’ve got it!” exclaimed Ned eagerly. “‘Irma’ isn’t the name of a woman—not in this case anyhow—it’s the name of a boat! I saw her up at Cleveland last month. She’s an old steam-tug, and I’ll bet she’s the craft Dick and I saw come in close to Coleson’s beach last night!” For a while the two discussed this possibility, but without arriving at any definite conclusion. Meanwhile, the wind had increased in force and the chilling rain was driving almost unchecked through the flimsy slab shelter. Grimly the boys stuck to their watching, and at last the gleam of a headlight brought them to their feet with a warming thrill of excitement. “They’ve had to use their headlights to find the road!” croaked Dave in a voice gone suddenly hoarse. “Only the dimmers,” replied Ned. “They won’t show any more light than necessary. Look!” he continued. “That fellow in the shack is on the job!” and Ned pointed to the flash of the torch which signaled the approaching truck. “They’ll pass close to us! We’d better get farther back!” whispered Ned, and creeping from the lean-to, he slipped around behind the slab pile closely followed by Dave. Pushing its bulk through the bush-lined roadway, the truck had arrived at a point opposite to where the boys crouched, when a sudden violent gust of wind lifted the slabs of which the lean-to had been constructed and flung them with a crash into the road directly in front of the oncoming vehicle. With a squeal of brakes the truck skidded to a stop and as its lights flashed into full power two men sprang to the ground and rushed forward, intent upon discovering what had happened. As the two came to a halt before the tumbled slabs, the glare of the headlights shone full upon them. For an instant Ned Blake found himself staring at the two figures; one, muffled in a raincoat and with a cap pulled low above a swarthy face; the other, a tall man whose face glowed redly in the white gleam of the auto lamp. It was but a glimpse and then, on the moment, came the jar of running feet from the direction of the shanty, and a flashlight cut the blackness. “Quick!” gasped Ned, backing into the bushes and dragging Dave after him. “Make for the flivver!” and stooping low, he started toward the highway. “Whew! That was a close call!” wheezed Dave, when they pulled up at the edge of the state road. “Do you think they saw us?” “I don’t believe so,” replied Ned. “The light was on them and the wind made a lot of noise to cover our movements. My guess is that after they have looked things over a bit without finding anything suspicious, they’ll come along with that truck.” “And by that time we’ll be hitting the high spots for home!” ejaculated Dave. “The inside of that tin lizzie is sure going to look good to me!” “Not so fast,” urged Ned as his companion started for the thicket where the flivver was hidden. “I’m for lying close here for a while longer. I’d like to see how that truck gets into the highway.” “It’s so black we can’t see anything!” grumbled Dave, who nevertheless made no further objection but followed Ned, as the latter, after hazarding a single brief gleam from his flashlight, succeeded in locating the entrance to the old road and crept silently beneath the tangle of vines close to the trunk of the great oak. Hardly were they settled in this new hiding-place when the pale gleam of dimmed lights came into view. “Here she comes!” rasped Dave in his froggy whisper. “She’s feeling her way and taking no chances of hitting a tree. My guess is that she’s about where the tire-tracks leave off. Now we’ll soon see if she takes to the air—or what she does!” Even as he spoke, the vehicle, which had been slowly but steadily approaching, came to a halt and her lights winked out. Sounds of cautious movement came through the darkness and at irregular intervals a flashlight spat fitfully, revealing shadowy forms which seemed bent to a crouching position as they crept forward. The faint throb of the motor told that the truck was again in motion but, to the deep chagrin of the watchers, no ray of light showed. The threshing of foliage indicated that the curtain of vines was being pulled aside. Then came another halt followed by a muttered order and the jolting of a heavy vehicle as it forced its way past the obstruction and gained the highway beyond. Quiet for several minutes, broken only by the same cautious movements as before and the sound of some heavy object apparently dragged along the ground. Soon the scrape of a boot told that somebody was boarding the truck; its lights flashed full, and with a quick-grinding of gears it was off, heading along the road toward Cleveland. As the sound of the motor died in the distance, Ned burst from his covert beside the big oak, and jerking the flashlight from his pocket, played its white rays to-and-fro along the narrow way. Except for flattened blades of grass, which in a few hours would recover their former position, there was nothing to suggest that a vehicle had passed but a few moments before. On the hard soil between the curtain of vines and the edge of the macadam road no single mark of rubber tires was visible. “Well, by jiminy! This beats me!” exclaimed Dave. “How? And also why? That’s what I’m asking the water-soaked world!” “That’s what Dick and I wanted to know—also Red and Fatty,” answered Ned. “How and why. We didn’t get any satisfactory answer and neither will you and I by standing here. Let’s go home.” Without a word, Dave led the way to his car and backing it out of the thicket headed back for town. “Not much to show for a night’s hard work—not to mention being half drowned in the bargain,” he croaked, as he let Ned out of the car at the Blake cottage. “Not much, that’s a fact,” agreed Ned. “See you tomorrow.” But as he crept quietly up to his room and struggled out of his wet clothing, Ned Blake found himself faced with the problem of just how much he had best reveal to his companions regarding what he had discovered in that brief instant when the headlight of the truck had shone upon the faces of the two men. Like a flashlight picture had come the remembrance of a short, thick-set figure muffled in a great fur coat, and of a tall, red-faced man called “Miller.” Yes, one of the men had been the mysterious passenger on the Frost King, but this time recollection had gone farther back to a day when, instead of a glistening wet raincoat, the man had been enveloped to the chin in the streaming rubber suit of a diver. There was no room for doubt. The man was Latrobe. And with this discovery there had come to Ned Blake the realization that behind the mysterious happenings out at the Coleson house there was something sinister; something fraught with real danger to whosoever might stand in its way. Ghosts! Latrobe was more to be feared than a whole houseful of ghosts! With the possible exception of Wat Sanford, none of the fellows took any stock in ghosts, but every one of them knew Latrobe by reputation. How would they react to the knowledge that they were dealing with this man? As for Ned himself, he was ready to pit his nerve and wit against anybody in defense of what he knew to be his right. Would the others support him against such an enemy as Latrobe? Should he risk the abandonment of their project out at Coleson’s by telling them what he had discovered? Morning dawned while Ned still wrestled with his problem. “I’ll wait awhile anyhow,” he muttered, as he at last dropped into an unquiet sleep. |
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