A NOTE FROM A GHOST
The week that now followed was one of hard labor, and the long hours of
work at the Coleson house were succeeded by earnest rehearsals of the
orchestra. Such industry brought gratifying results and hardly had the
young people of Truesdell settled to their accustomed routine after the
usual Fourth of July celebration, when their interest was aroused by
promise of a new attraction. This was heralded by flaming posters,
adorned with grinning death heads and bearing the following
announcement:
DEMON DANCES
at the
HAUNTED COLESON HOUSE
THRILLS!! MYSTERY!!
PHUN with the PHANTOMS
Grand Opening Sat. July 7
Music by the Syncopating Six
Admission $1.00 a Couple
Refreshments.
Tommy Beals’ “idea” went over big—as his companions assured him in so
hearty a manner that he grew quite pink with pleasure.
“It really wasn’t my idea at all,” he protested modestly. “Ned said it
first. I only worked it up a bit and made the posters.”
“Yes, and in a way that none of the rest of us have got either the wit
or the skill to do!” declared Ned, loyally. “Now the next thing will be
to get up some stunts in the ghost line. Nothing horrible, but just
enough to keep the crowd guessing.”
“That ought to be easy,” said Charlie Rogers. “All we need is a little
phosphorescent paint—the kind that glows at night—kind of pale and
ghastly, and maybe a couple of iron chains to clank at the right time.”
As July seventh drew near, the “haunted” house was the scene of feverish
activity. The well scraped oak floor was given its final coating of wax
and polished to a perilous smoothness. Flags and bunting, which had
recently decked the town band-stand, now concealed the rough unfinished
timbers and broken portions of walls and ceilings. A piano was installed
on the stair-landing and one hundred chairs of the folding type used at
public gatherings were arranged along the walls of the two dance rooms.
A rectangle of solid flooring covered the opening to the cellar and
removed any danger of injury to the dancers from a fall into the black
pit below. With the heavy part of the work completed, the boys had
declared a half-holiday and were gathered in the Wilbur garage for a
final conference.
“We’re just fifty-six dollars in the hole,” announced Chairman Blake
after a careful revision of the figures handed him by Treasurer Beals.
“If this first dance is the success it ought to be, we can square up on
everything and have something ahead for payment on the lease.”
“I guess we needn’t worry about that,” said Wat Sanford. “From the talk
that’s going round we’ll have over a hundred paid admissions, easy.”
“The crowd down at the Pavilion is beginning to take notice,” chuckled
Dick Somers. “Bony Jones held me up today and wanted to know who is
backing us. I made him swear to keep the secret and then told him that
Henry Ford is helping us. And that’s the truth,” continued Dick,
indicating the flivver by a jerk of his thumb, “Henry is furnishing the
transportation.”
“There’s something I ought to tell you fellows,” began Tommy Beals, when
the laugh at Dick’s joke had subsided. “I don’t suppose it really
amounts to anything, but all the same it’s a bit strange.” Here Tommy
paused and drew from his pocket a paper which he unfolded and passed to
Ned Blake. “It’s a letter that came to Sam,” continued Beals, “and I’ll
say it just about scared the daylights out of that coon. Read it, Ned.”
Ned glanced over the typewritten sheet and read aloud as follows:
“Sam G. Washington,
“I hear that you have hired my house and intend to run dances there.
Now listen, you black son of Satan! If you do this, or if you _allow_
it to be done, I’ll haunt you to your dying day.
“Eli Coleson.”
Ned paused and glanced round the circle of faces upon which was depicted
surprise, doubt and uncertainty. For a moment nobody spoke. It was Tommy
Beals who broke the silence.
“Sam got the letter this morning and was waiting to show it to me when I
got home. I tried to laugh him out of his fright by telling him it was a
joke that somebody is playing on him.”
“Of course it’s a joke!” exclaimed Charlie Rogers, impetuously. “Nobody
but a superstitious darky would pay any attention to such stuff!”
“But suppose he should get scared and funk the whole thing and cancel
his lease? What hold have we got on him to make him stick?” demanded
Dave Wilbur.
“Not much, I’ll admit,” replied Ned, gloomily. “This letter was mailed
on the train and shows only the railroad post-office mark. Evidently
whoever wrote it intends to keep under cover. I wonder how many people
know that the lease stands in Sam’s name?”
“Oh, probably a hundred, by this time!” declared Dick Somers,
disgustedly. “I suppose Sam felt so important that he bragged of the
thing all over town!”
But in this, Dick did the honest negro an injustice, for in spite of
swelling pride which threatened him with suffocation, Sam had kept his
secret faithfully. To his simple mind it thus appeared that the ghost of
Eli Coleson must know his inmost thoughts and secret acts, and this idea
had, as Tommy Beals expressed it, almost scared the daylights out of
him.
“If we had the seventy-five dollars to plank down right now as advance
payment in full for the lease, Sam might find it hard to cancel it,”
suggested Jim Tapley.
“We’ll have the cash after the dance Saturday night,” declared Dick.
“We’ll have to find some way to keep Sam away from the town hall till
Monday—even if we have to kidnap him!”
“Suppose some of us have a talk with Sam and try to convince him that he
is being made the butt of a joke,” suggested Ned.
“Well, it’s worth a try,” agreed Beals. “I’ll go with you right now,”
and the two emissaries left the garage in a hurry.