A SUMMER PROPOSITION
The school year had ended in a fashion to delight the heart of every
loyal son of Truesdell, and the day following graduation found a group
of the boys lounging in Dave Wilbur’s yard, a convenient meeting-place
by reason of its central location.
“Are you going to play ball this summer, Ned?” asked Jim Tapley. “I hear
they’re looking for a pitcher on the North Shore Stars. You could make
the team easy, and there’s seventy-five a month in it plus expenses.”
Ned Blake shook his head. “Nothing doing, Jim,” he said regretfully.
“I’ll admit the money would mean a lot to me, for, as you all know, I’m
trying to scrape together enough to enter college in the fall. But if I
get there, I want to play ball and this professional stuff would bar
me.”
“What I’d like to do is go to England on a cattle steamer,” declared
Charlie Rogers. “All you have to do is rustle hay and water for the
steers.”
“Yeah, that’s all, Red,” drawled Dave Wilbur, “and they only eat about
four tons a day and drink—well, they’d drink a river dry, and you sleep
down somewhere on top of the keel and eat whatever the cook happens to
throw you—unless you’re too blamed sea-sick to eat anything.”
“Well, even that would be better than hanging round this dead dump all
summer,” retorted Rogers, with some spirit.
“Dan Slade has got a job over across the lake in Canada,” announced Wat
Sanford. “I saw him at the station yesterday when the train came through
from Bedford. He was bragging that he was going to pull down a hundred a
month, but he didn’t say what the job was.”
“Some crooked work probably,” remarked Tommy Beals. “Now what I’d like
would be a good job bell-hopping at some swell summer hotel. A fellow
can make all kinds of dough on tips.”
“Sure, you’d look cute in a coat with no tail to it and a million little
brass buttons sewed all over the front!” laughed Dick Somers. “What you
really need, Fatty, is a job as soda-fountain expert, where you can get
enough sugar and cream to keep your weight up to the notch.”
There was a general laugh at this in which Tommy joined good-naturedly.
“I guess what we’re all looking for is a chance to make some money this
summer,” suggested Ned. “What Red says about this being a dead dump is
true of every town, until somebody starts something. It’s up to us to
show signs of life. I don’t believe any of us would be content to loaf
till next September.”
“Speak for yourself, Ned,” yawned Dave Wilbur, who, stretched at full
length on his back, was lazily trying to balance a straw on the tip of
his long nose. “I’m enjoying myself fine right here—and besides you want
to remember that ‘a rolling stone gathers no moss.’”
“Bony Jones got a job down at the Pavilion dance hall,” remarked Tapley.
“His old man has something to do with the place and they took Bony on as
assistant. Pretty soft, I’ll say.”
“I was hoping to get a chance down there with the jazz orchestra,”
lamented Rogers, “but I hear they’ve brought two saxophone players up
from Cleveland, which lets me out.”
“Tough luck, Red,” sympathized Tommy. “You and Wat ought to find a
chance somewhere to do a turn with sax and traps; the Pavilion isn’t the
only place.”
“What’s the matter with our running some dances of our own?” asked Ned.
“The Pavilion is usually over-crowded and we ought to get some of the
business.”
“Who do you mean by _we_?” inquired Wat Sanford.
“Well, there’s you with the traps and Red with the sax—as Fatty has just
suggested,” began Ned. “Dick is pretty fair on the banjo and Jim can
play the piano with the best of ’em. Dave can do his stuff on the
clarinet—if he’s not too exhausted—and I would make a bluff with the
trumpet. Fatty could take tickets and act as a general utility man. That
makes seven, all we need for a start.”
“That’s about half of the high school orchestra,” remarked Dick. “I
guess with a little practice we might get by as far as music is
concerned, but where would we run the dances?”
Several possibilities were suggested, only to be turned down as
impracticable for one reason or another.
“What we want is a place just out of town which auto parties can reach
handily,” declared Jim Tapley, who was taking a lively interest in the
scheme. “We could serve refreshments and make something that way.”
“There’s one place we might do something with,” began Ned, a bit
doubtfully. “I’m thinking of the Coleson house,” he continued. “Of
course it’s a good ten miles out and quite a distance off the main
road.”
“Yes, and that’s not the whole story either,” objected Rogers. “The
house was going to wrack and ruin even while Coleson lived in it, and
lying shut up so long can’t have improved it a whole lot.”
“Guess it’s in bad shape all right,” agreed Tommy Beals. “Haunted,
too—if you can believe all you hear about it. There’s talk of some
mighty queer things going on out there.”
“What kind of things?” asked Wat Sanford, quickly.
“Can’t say exactly,” admitted Beals. “Some folks claim to have seen and
heard things that couldn’t be explained. Last fall a darky went past the
house after dark and was scared pretty near dippy.”
“That’s the bunk,” drawled Dave Wilbur. “D’j’ever see a darky that
wasn’t nuts on ghosts?”
“What do you say we take a run out there anyhow?” suggested Rogers.
“It’s a swell day for a ride and we can go swimming; the water’s
elegant; I was in yesterday!”
“Bully idea, Red,” applauded Tapley. “Come on, Weary! Crank up the old
flivver!” he cried, as he stirred up the recumbent Wilbur with his toe.
Thus appealed to, Dave arose lazily to back the little car out of the
garage, and piling in, the boys settled themselves as best they could
upon its lumpy cushions.
“What do you reckon we’ll find out there, Ned?” asked Wat Sanford a bit
anxiously, when the flivver after sundry protesting coughs and sputters,
had finally gotten under way.
“Oh, dirt and lonesomeness, mostly,” laughed Ned. “They’re the usual
furniture of a deserted house—especially if it’s supposed to be
haunted.”
Lonesomeness seemed, in truth, to pervade the very air and to settle
like a pall upon the spirits of the boys, as the flivver coughed its way
up the weed-grown drive and came to a halt before the tall, gloomy,
brick front.
Charlie Rogers sprang out, and mounting the weatherbeaten steps leading
to the broad porch, rattled the great iron knob of the massive front
door. “It’s locked, all right,” he reported, “and these window-shutters
seem pretty solid.”
Further investigation proved this to be true of all the openings of the
lower story, but at the rear of the house one window-shutter of the
story above had broken from its fastenings and swung creakingly in the
breeze.
“If we only had a ladder—” began Wat Sanford.
“That’s not necessary,” interrupted Ned. “The question is who’s got the
nerve to go through that window and find his way down to open one of
these lower shutters?”
“I’ll do it,” volunteered Dick. “That is, I will if I can reach that
window-sill; it’s about fifteen feet up.”
“We’ll put you there,” promised Ned, and he locked arms with Dave
Wilbur. The two braced themselves close to the wall of the house. Tapley
and Rogers mounted to their shoulders and Dick, climbing nimbly to the
top of this human pyramid, grasped the window ledge above and drew
himself upon it. In a moment he was inside, and pausing only long enough
to accustom his eyes to the gloom of the interior, he picked his way
down the unfinished stairs and unhooked a shutter that opened upon the
front porch. By this means the other boys entered, but paused in awe of
the deathly stillness of the place.
“Gee! It’s like a tomb!” shivered Sanford, and struggling with a
window-fastening, he threw open another shutter at the westerly end,
admitting a flood of sunlight which revealed an apartment nearly thirty
feet square, partly paneled with oak and floored with the same material.
Opposite the entrance, a stairway had been completed up to its first
broad landing, but the remainder of the flight was still in a rough,
unfinished condition. Through a wide, arched doorway could be seen
another large room, evidently designed for a dining-hall but entirely
unfinished except for the floor, which, as in the case of the first
apartment, was of quartered oak.
“What’s down below?” asked Wat, as he peered through a rectangular
opening into the blackness beneath. “Ugh! It looks spooky!”
“There’s nothing down there except a big cellar,” replied Ned,
reassuringly. “This hole was left for the cellar stairs to be built in,
but they were never even begun.”
Further investigation of the interior showed the oaken paneling to be
warped and cracked by dampness and long neglect, but the floors, beneath
their thick covering of dust, were in fairly good condition.
“It’s the floor that we’re most interested in for our proposition,”
declared Dick. “I believe that a few days of hard work with scrapers
would make these two rooms fit for dancing. We could put the music on
that stair-landing and leave this whole lower space free and clear.”
“Do you think we could get a crowd to come way out here?” asked Tommy
Beals doubtfully. “It’s a lonesome dump even in the daytime, and at
night it is mighty easy to believe these yarns about its being haunted.”
“Why not make _that_ the big attraction!” exclaimed Ned with sudden
inspiration. “Everybody is looking for thrills nowadays. We might be
able to give ’em a brand new one.”
A chorus of approval greeted this suggestion.
“Bully stuff, Ned!” cried Charlie Rogers. “Great idea! And if there
don’t happen to be any honest-to-goodness ghosts on the job, we can
manufacture a few just to keep up the interest.”
“What do you think it would cost to fix up the old shebang?” asked
Wilbur, who, despite his rather affected laziness, was beginning to take
an interest in the scheme.
“Oh, not a whole lot,” replied Ned, glancing about with an appraising
eye. “As Dick says, the floor is our chief consideration, and if we do
the work on it ourselves, the only expense will be for scrapers and
sandpaper. We can string bunting and flags to cover the breaks in the
walls and ceiling. We’ll have to lay a floor over that stair-opening, or
somebody will manage to tumble through into the cellar, but I guess we
can find enough lumber around here to do the job.”
“How about lights?” inquired Sanford. “There isn’t an electric line
within five miles.”
“We’ll use candles,” decided Ned. “A dim light will be just what we want
for ghost stunts anyhow, and candles won’t cost much if we buy ’em in
wholesale lots.”
“Shall we figure on refreshments?” asked Rogers.
“Sure thing!” asserted Dick. “The Pavilion sells ice cream and soft
drinks; we can do the same and serve the stuff from the butler’s pantry.
That will be just the job for Fatty!”
“Nothing doing!” objected Beals in an injured tone. “I draw the line on
handing out grub for other folks to eat, but I’ll _manage_ the
refreshment business and get our darky, Sam, to serve the stuff. Sam
used to work in a restaurant and can do the trick in style.”
“All right, then,” announced Ned, who had, by common consent, assumed
leadership, “let’s get organized into working shape. There are seven of
us, and if we chip in two dollars each, it will put fourteen dollars
into the treasury for immediate expenses.”
This was agreed to and Tommy Beals was elected treasurer.
“Now if there’s no objection I’ll assign the various jobs,” continued
Ned. “Dick and Red are to get brooms, scrapers, and whatever else they
think we need for fixing the floors. Weary and Wat will attend to the
bunting and such other decorations as may be required—also the candles.
Fatty and Jim will look after the matter of refreshments. The first
thing to do is to make sure that we can get the use of this house at a
rental that we can afford. I’ll talk to the town authorities right away
and see if we can get a lease. Let’s meet at Dave’s house tomorrow
afternoon and hear reports on costs of the different items, after that,
we can make definite plans.”