[Illustration: “A FIGURE CATAPULTED FROM THE REAR OF THE VEHICLE”
(_See page 295_)]
Copper Coleson’s
Ghost
_By_
EDWARD P. HENDRICK
Author of
“THE CRUISE OF THE SALLY”
_Illustrated by_
HAROLD CUE
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
BOSTON PUBLISHERS
_Copyright, 1930_
By L. C. Page & Company
(INCORPORATED)
_All rights reserved_
Made in U. S. A.
First Impression, August, 1930
COMPOSED, PLATED AND PRINTED BY
C. H. SIMONDS COMPANY
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS, U. S. A.
BECAUSE THEIR ENCOURAGEMENT AND CRITICISM HAVE
BEEN HELPFUL TO ME DURING THE WRITING OF
THIS STORY, I AM DEDICATING IT TO MY BOYS
BOB AND JACK
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Friends—New and Old 1
II. Copper Coleson 19
III. The Haunted Mine 29
IV. The Race 37
V. A Strange Conversation 52
VI. In Training 64
VII. The Big Game 74
VIII. A Summer Proposition 87
IX. Housecleaning 103
X. A Note from a Ghost 110
XI. The Light on the Wall 118
XII. Warnings 127
XIII. The Night Watch 140
XIV. The Mystery Ship 152
XV. Weary Ceases to Scoff 167
XVI. Puzzled 182
XVII. A Sinister Discovery 191
XVIII. The Apparition at the Dance 212
XIX. A Startling Disclosure 229
XX. Exploring the Tunnel 243
XXI. Trapped in the Mine 252
XXII. A Daring Attempt 262
XXIII. Escape 273
XXIV. The Chase and Capture 285
XXV. Profits 298
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
“A figure catapulted from the rear of the vehicle” (_See page
295_) _Frontispiece_
“‘We’ve got ’em licked!’ screamed Dick” 46
“From the oak panel fluttered a scrap of paper” 137
“Ned brought him down with a hard diving tackle” 231
CHAPTER I
FRIENDS—NEW AND OLD
In the rear of a white cottage, known to all residents of the town of
Truesdell as “the Blake homestead,” stands a great apple tree, whose
leafy boughs have afforded shade in summer and fruit in autumn to
several generations of Blakes. At present, its hospitable branches have
been converted into an out-of-door gymnasium by Ned Blake,
great-grandson of old Josiah Blake, from whose half-eaten apple-core the
tree sprang some seventy years ago. “Six feet, two inches in his socks
and as wide as a door,” is how tradition describes old Josiah, and
although Ned Blake at seventeen stands less than seventy inches in his
sneakers and tips the scales at a trifle less than one hundred and fifty
pounds, he has something of the supple strength and a goodly measure of
the courage and grit that made old Josiah respected among the early
settlers of Truesdell.
Clad in a sleeveless jersey, duck trousers and sneakers, Ned has just
climbed a rope hand over hand to an upper limb from which he descends in
a veritable cascade of cat-skinning, toe-holding, ape-like swings to
drop on the turf beside his friend, Tommy Beals.
“Bully stuff!” applauded Tommy. “You sure can do the monkey tricks, Ned,
but it makes me sweat just to watch ’em _this_ weather,” and Tommy
hitched his rotund form farther into the shade of the friendly tree.
“It would do you good to try some of them, Fatty,” laughed Ned. “Come on
now. Here’s a simple one for a starter,” and catching a horizontal limb
above his head, Ned proceeded to chin himself with first one hand, then
with the other, and finished with a two-handed hoisting swing that left
him seated upon the limb.
Tommy Beals wagged his head in a hopeless negative. “Nope, it can’t be
done,” he sighed. “Whoever drew _my_ plans must have been thinking about
ballast instead of aviation, but if you ever want a good anchor for a
tug-of-war team why just count on _me_.”
“All right, I’ll keep it in mind,” promised Ned, “but here’s something
you can do for a little exercise,” he continued, dropping again to the
ground. “I want to grind my camp axe a bit, if you’ll turn for me.”
“Sure, I’ll do it,” agreed Tommy good-naturedly and, fetching a soap box
for a seat, he squatted beside a heavy grindstone that stood in the
shade of the tree.
For perhaps ten minutes the sharp _skurr_ of steel on stone sounded on
the hot August air, then ceased abruptly as Ned lifted the axe from the
whirling stone and tested its edge gingerly with his thumb. Tommy seized
the opportunity to let go his hold of the crank-handle and wipe the
beads of perspiration from his plump countenance.
“Gosh, it’s hot!” he panted. “Ain’t the old cleaver sharp yet, Ned?”
“It’s pretty good, except for a couple of nicks,” replied Ned, “but you
needn’t turn any more, Fatty. Here comes Dave Wilbur and I’ll get him to
spell you.”
“Yeah! I’ll sure admire to watch Weary Wilbur _work_,” grinned Beals, as
a tall, lanky youth with hands deep in his pockets turned in at the gate
and strolled leisurely across the lawn. “I’ll bet you the ice cream
sodas, Ned, that Dave will find an alibi for _any_ job—if he sees it
coming,” continued Tommy, in a wheezy whisper.
“I’ll take that bet,” laughed Ned. “Hello, Dave,” he exclaimed, “you’re
just in time to save Fatty’s life! Grab hold of that crank and turn a
minute or so. I’ve got to grind a couple of nicks out of this axe.”
Dave Wilbur, affectionately known to his friends as “Weary,” glanced
suspiciously at the axe in Ned Blake’s hands, then at the perspiring
face of Tommy Beals whose grin was but partly concealed by his mopping
handkerchief, and lastly at the heavy grindstone whose crank-handle
projected so invitingly toward him. “Sure, I’ll turn for you,” he
drawled. “Hop up, Fatty,” and as Beals surrendered the soap box, Dave
seated himself with cool deliberation.
“Just a few turns will be enough, Dave,” were Ned’s reassuring words, as
he pressed the axe upon the stone.
“Oh, that’ll be all right,” replied Wilbur. “One good turn deserves
another, you know, but say, before I forget it, who’s your new
neighbor?”
“Neighbor?” repeated Ned. “_What_ neighbor?”
“Moving in next door,” explained Wilbur as he leaned back comfortably
against the tree trunk and inserted a clean straw in the corner of his
mouth.
Ned laid down the axe and stepped quickly to the fence which divided his
back-yard from the property beyond. “I guess you’re right, Dave,” he
remarked after a brief scrutiny. “There’s a big furniture van unloading,
and the stuff is piled all over the sidewalk. There’s a young chap
lugging it into the yard.”
“Yeah, I noticed him as I came along,” explained Wilbur. “I was just
going to stop and give the young fellow a hand when I happened to think
maybe you would want to be in on it—you and Fatty.”
“It’s mighty nice of you not to hog the job all by yourself, Dave,”
laughed Ned, “but let’s see what’s going on,” and slipping his arms into
the sleeves of a thin linen coat, he led the way toward the front of the
house.
The furniture van had deposited its load and turned away toward the
railroad station for a second installment. A slim, wiry lad about
seventeen years of age was carrying the lighter articles into the house.
“Now’s your chance, Weary,” chuckled Tommy Beals. “Hop to it and rustle
that piano up the front steps!”
“Here comes Dan Slade,” announced Ned. “I wonder just how much help
he’ll offer.”
“Dan Slade could just about tote that piano all by himself, if he took
the notion,” commented Beals, as he watched the youth who came
swaggering toward them. “It seems to me he gets bigger and huskier every
time I see him.”
“Yes. Bigger and huskier and meaner,” supplemented Wilbur. “It’ll be
just like him to start razzing that chap. Let’s stroll over and listen
in.”
Slade had stopped at the heap of furniture, and the three friends
approaching from the opposite direction were concealed from view as they
halted to hear his opening salutation.
“Hey, kid,” he began. “What’s the big idea blockin’ the sidewalk with
all this junk? This is a public street.”
The new boy straightened from the box he was preparing to lift and
turned toward the speaker a freckled countenance. He had a wide mouth
with slightly upturned corners that gave an expression of good humor to
his face. “Sorry,” he apologized good-naturedly, “I’ll have this stuff
cleared away soon, but if you’re in a hurry, I’ll”—here he paused and
regarded Slade’s great hulking figure with a suspicion of amusement in
his blue eyes—“if you’re in a hurry I’ll try to carry you around it.”
The words, together with the grin that accompanied them, brought an ugly
scowl to Slade’s face. “Don’t wise-crack _me_!” he growled. “I don’t
have to be carried around this junk. I’m goin’ _through_ it!” and
lunging ahead he put his weight against a tall bureau, causing it to
topple toward the glass doors of a sideboard directly beyond. The new
boy sprang forward in time to prevent the smash and succeeded in
restoring the bureau to its place. The good-humored expression of his
face had changed to one of surprise, not unmixed with indignation.
“I’ll ask you not to knock over our stuff,” he began in a voice that
seemed to tremble slightly in spite of his effort to control it.
“Ho! Ho!” jeered Slade, pleased by what he interpreted as an indication
of fear. “Now who do you think is goin’ to stop me?”
The freckled face paled slightly, but the wide humorous mouth compressed
itself to a thin line and the blue eyes grew steely. Stepping forward,
the new boy placed himself squarely in front of his tormentor. “_I’ll_
try to stop you,” he said quietly.
It is doubtful if Slade had intended to do more than merely amuse
himself by bullying the weaker boy into a condition of pleading, but
this unexpected show of resistance nettled him. Evidently the youngster
had not been sufficiently impressed. At Slade’s feet lay a box
containing articles of fireplace furniture. Stooping, he picked up a
poker made from a square rod of heavy iron. He seized the implement by
its ends and fixed his bold black eyes upon the freckled face opposite
him.
“_You’ll_ try to stop me, eh,” he sneered, “Why, I’d bend _you_ like I
bend this here poker!” and with a wrench of his powerful arms Slade
changed the straight bar into a letter U. “It takes somebody who can do
_that_ to stop _me_,” he warned as he flung the distorted bar back into
its box.
“That’s quite a stunt,” exclaimed a voice at his elbow. “Now can you
straighten it again?”
Slade spun round to face Ned Blake, who had stepped into view closely
followed by Tommy Beals and Dave Wilbur. A belligerent expression
crossed Slade’s face as he eyed the group before him. “Who wants to
know?” he sneered, doubling his big fists.
For a moment a fight seemed inevitable. Dave and Tommy felt the sudden
tension and the new boy stiffened perceptibly; but to provoke a fight
was not Ned Blake’s way of settling an argument and he answered without
a trace of ill humor. “Why, I guess we’re _all_ interested,” he said
smilingly. “It takes some muscle to bend a bar like that, but they say
it’s even harder to straighten it. Can you do it?”
Slade hesitated. Into his rather dull mind there crept a suspicion that
perhaps he was being made the butt of some joke, and the thought brought
an angry flush to his face. He would have welcomed an opportunity to try
conclusions with this gray-eyed youth, who appeared so irritatingly cool
and unafraid and yet offered no reasonable grounds for offense. Slade
looked him up and down for a minute. “Sure I can straighten it—if I want
to,” he growled.
“I’m wondering,” laughed Ned.
Stung to action as much by the tone as by the look of doubt in the
smiling gray eyes, Slade snatched up the poker. “I’ll show you,” he
gritted as he put forth his strength upon it.
To his surprise the U-shaped poker resisted stubbornly. It was an
awkward shape to handle, and in addition the attempted straightening
brought into play a very different set of muscles from those required to
bend it. Pausing for a new hold, Slade strained upon the bar till the
sweat streamed down his face and his breath came in wheezy gasps. Slowly
the ends of the poker yielded to his power until the bar had assumed the
general shape of a crude letter W, much elongated. With a grunt of
disgust, Slade flung it upon the ground.
“It’s crookeder than ever,” grinned Tommy Beals with an audible chuckle.
Slade made no reply, but his hard breathing was as much the result of
rage as of physical effort. Ned Blake picked up the bar and balanced it
lightly in his hand.
“Bending a bar is much like mischief,” he remarked. “It’s easier to do
than to undo.” As he spoke, Ned shifted his grip close to one end of the
bar and that portion of the crooked iron straightened slowly in his
grasp. It was done with seeming ease, but a close observer would have
detected evidence of a tremendous effort in the whitening of the
knuckles and the quiver of the muscles in chest and neck. The other
crooked end yielded in much the same manner, and the poker had again
assumed the shape of a letter U or horseshoe.
Ned paused and drew his knuckles across his eyes, into which the sweat
of effort had rolled. Stooping, he dried his hands in the powdery dust
of the gutter and grasped the bar, not as Slade had done, but close upon
each side of the crook. With elbows pressed against his sides he inhaled
to the full capacity of his lungs, bringing into play at the same moment
every ounce of power in his wrists and forearms. Slowly the stubborn
metal yielded until, after another quick shifting of grip, Ned’s
extended thumbs came together in a straight line where the crook of the
U had been.
“Here you are,” he said as he handed the bar to its owner, who had
watched with no little surprise and uncertainty the little by-play
enacted before his eyes. “And by the way,” continued the speaker, “my
name is Blake—Ned Blake—next door, you know.”
The new boy’s freckles vanished in the flood of color that flushed his
cheeks, as still keeping a wary eye upon Slade he reached forward to
grip the friendly hand extended toward him. “Somers is my name—Dick
Somers.” And as he spoke, the humorous expression again lighted his
face.
“You seem to be obstructing traffic,” laughed Ned. “We’ll give you a
hand with this stuff. Tommy Beals, here, is a great worker and as for
Dave Wilbur—why, he’s absolutely _pining_ for a job.”
For a moment Slade listened with ill-concealed disgust to this
conversation, then realizing how completely the mastery of the situation
had been wrested from him, he swung round on his heel and slouched away.
“Is he a neighbor?” asked Somers with a jerk of his thumb in the
direction of the departing Slade.
“No, thank heaven, he’s not,” replied Beals. “His name is Dan
Slade—Slugger Slade they call him where he lives up in the town of
Bedford. He’s got a reputation as a great bully, but I don’t know just
how far he’d really go.”
“‘A barking dog seldom bites,’” drawled Wilbur, “but just the same,
Somers, you showed a lot of spunk standing up to him the way you did. My
guess is that you’re the right sort.”
“I don’t mind admitting I was plumb scared half to death when I saw him
bend that poker,” grinned Somers, “but that wasn’t anything compared
with straightening it,” he continued with a look of genuine admiration
at Ned Blake.
“Both stunts are mostly trick stuff,” declared the latter, “but let’s
get busy with this furniture, before somebody else gets sore about the
sidewalk being blocked.”
Four pairs of hands made short work of the pile, and by the time the van
had arrived from the freight house with its second load, the walk was
cleared and the boys were helping Mrs. Somers arrange the articles
indoors.
“This is awfully kind of you boys!” exclaimed Dick’s mother gratefully
when the job was finished. “I wish I could offer you something cold to
drink after your hard, hot work, but I haven’t a bit of ice in the
house.”
“Don’t you worry about us, Mrs. Somers,” laughed Ned. “We’ve just
invited Dick to go down to the corner and join us in an ice cream soda.
It’s Fatty Beals’ treat.”
“Sure,” agreed Beals, “you win all right, Ned,” and then with a grinning
glance at the perspiring countenance of Dave Wilbur he continued, “You
win—but I’ll say it’s been worth the price.”