  The interest that had been aroused by the cave-in of Copper Coleson’s mine was as nothing compared with the excitement which prevailed when it became known that the property had been used as a base by smugglers from Canada. A large number of automobilists made the Coleson place the objective of their Sunday-afternoon drive, but except for wheel and foot tracks about the tightly shuttered building, there was nothing to be seen. The boys who had taken so active a part in the capture of the gang were overwhelmed with praise and bombarded with questions, but acting upon a preconcerted agreement, they gave out very little information. “Keep ’em guessing,” had been Ned Blake’s brief advice. “We’ll get the fellows together on Monday afternoon and decide what’s to be done.” Owing to the fact that the Wilbur garage was newly painted, the meeting was held in the Blake yard beneath the friendly, though of late neglected, apple tree. Perched upon one of the lower limbs, Ned called the meeting to order, and Treasurer Beals from his soap-box submitted his report which showed after payment of all outstanding accounts a gratifying balance. “We were going good, but I guess the game’s up,” concluded Tommy, gloomily. “Yes, the Demon Dance bubble is busted,” agreed Rogers. “The Ghost of Copper Coleson is laid, and the phantom stuff was really about all that we had to offer.” “But we’ve paid the rent on the old shebang right up to October,” grumbled Dick Somers. “We’ve got to make some use of it, or else admit we’re licked!” “That’s just what we’re here to decide,” declared Ned. “Instead of quitting, I believe we’ll go bigger than ever!” “Do you mean we’ll keep on with the dances?” asked Jim Tapley. “I can’t see why not,” replied Ned. “All we need is some attraction to keep the crowd coming and this raid has given us a lot of advertising. Judging from the talk that’s going round I’d say that everybody wants to see where and how the thing happened. My idea would be to make ’em pay for what they learn. We can sell dance-tickets to include a walk across the canvas track and through the cellar into the mine.” “Swell idea,” agreed Wilbur, “only we ought to run the dances twice a week while the interest lasts. D’j’ever hear about ‘making hay while the sun shines’?” “Great!” applauded Rogers. “Fatty, it’s up to you to get out some new posters advertising semi-weekly dances at the Rum-Runners Retreat.” “That’s the idea!” chuckled Dick. “We’ll get a new crank for the winch and charge half a dollar for a ride on the dump-car down the tunnel. That’ll be a swell job for Weary!” “Aw say, Dick, use your bean,” urged Dave. “There’s another plan that might help us,” suggested Ned, when the laugh at Dave’s expense had subsided. “Suppose we were to clear out the old wood-road, which has played such an important part in all that has happened, and make it usable for our dance crowd. It’s a good two miles shorter than the regular route to Coleson’s.” This was unanimously approved. “All we’ll have to do is pull those vines to one side and chop out the brush along the road,” said Rogers. “In a couple of days we’ll have everything ready for Wednesday night.” “All right, fellows,” said Ned, as the meeting adjourned, “let’s meet at Dave’s tomorrow morning all set for a long day in the woods. Everybody will need a good sharp axe—and by the way,” he continued with a wink at Tommy Beals, “mine is pretty dull. How about giving me a few turns on the old grindstone, Weary?” Dave Wilbur glanced at the crank-handle of the heavy stone and from it to the circle of grinning faces. “Oh, all right,” he drawled. “I guess it’s on me this time,” and added with a grin, “they do say that ‘a chicken always comes home to roost.’” THE END |
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