WARNINGS
“Sam has quit on us!” announced Tommy Beals, as he joined Ned Blake and
Dick Somers at the latter’s house on Monday morning.
“You mean he’d like to quit,” laughed Ned. “I got down to the town hall
bright and early this morning and paid that lease in full, right up to
the end of September. I met Sam as I was coming out and showed him the
receipt. He gave me one scared look and shambled off toward home without
a word. Has anything new happened, Fatty?”
“Well, it’s darned queer,” began Beals, taking off his cap and running
his fingers through his stubby hair. “Sam came around to see me
yesterday morning before I was out of bed. Usually he won’t move on
Sunday, except to go to church, but yesterday was different. He hung
around till I finished breakfast and then coaxed me out to the barn,
where he told me about the wildest yarn I ever listened to.”
“Something he’d dreamed the night before, I suppose,” scoffed Dick.
“Maybe he dreamed some of it, and probably he drew pretty heavily on his
imagination for the details,” agreed Tommy, “but _something_ must have
happened Saturday night, and whatever it was, it scared him foolish!”
“Do you mean after he got home Saturday night?” inquired Ned. “You
remember we took him right to his gate that night.”
Beals nodded. “You know Sam lives alone in that shack of his and sleeps
in a little room off the kitchen. He says that soon after he got into
bed Saturday night he heard a queer noise. He sat up in bed to listen
and there at the window he saw something that he insists was the face of
Eli Coleson. Sam knew Eli well enough, and he swears he saw the old man
with his white beard—copper stains and all.”
“What happened then?” asked Dick.
“According to Sam’s story, old Eli came right through the wall and
struck at him with a pickax; but my own idea is, that if Sam thought he
saw something white at the window, he was down deep under the bed covers
about one second later. Anyhow, he’s so scared you couldn’t get him to
go near the Coleson house again for a million dollars—and that’s
_that_!”
“Let’s take a walk down to Sam’s shack. I’d like to see what the place
looks like by daylight,” suggested Ned.
“Good idea. Maybe we can find the place where old Eli went through the
side of the house,” laughed Dick.
A short walk brought the three boys to Sam’s house, about which they
prowled, peering in at the closed windows and examining the little
garden where the negro cultivated a few vegetables and flowers. There
was no evidence of a forced entrance into the house, but in the soft
earth of a flower bed, just below the bedroom window, was the distinct
imprint of a rubber-soled shoe.
“Does Sam ever wear that kind of shoe?” asked Ned as he pulled aside the
foliage for a better view of the footprint.
“I don’t believe he owns a pair of rubber-soled shoes, and anyhow, his
foot is two or three sizes bigger than this print,” replied Beals.
“Somebody else has been here, that’s sure,” declared Dick. “They’re
taking a lot of trouble to frighten a poor inoffensive darky half to
death!” he continued angrily. “A pretty cheap joke, I call it!”
“Maybe it’s not altogether a joke,” suggested Ned. “I mean there may be
something else than a joke behind all this. Nobody ever bothered Sam
before, but about as soon as it becomes known that he has a lease on the
Coleson house there comes that letter, then that light out at the house
and now this funny business here. All these happenings look like the
work of the same hand. What’s the answer?”
“Somebody is trying to scare Sam into quitting his lease,” growled Dick.
“It’s lucky for us that we blocked that game!”
“But who can it be, and why this sudden interest in the place just as we
get started there?” complained Tommy Beals.
“Perhaps the answer might be found out at the Coleson house,” suggested
Ned. “Are you two fellows game to go out there with me and scout around
a bit?”
“How can we get out there?” asked Dick. “Dave’s gone away somewhere with
the flivver and won’t be back till tonight.”
“Let’s take the Cleveland bus and get ’em to drop us at Cedar Hollow.
It’s only a couple of miles through the woods from there,” urged Ned.
This plan was agreed upon, and shortly afterwards the three scouts were
threading the thick undergrowth between Cedar Hollow and the lake.
“Here’s luck!” cried Dick, as they emerged from a tangle of underbrush
into what had evidently once been a wood-road. “This old track seems to
be heading about in the right direction. Let’s follow it.”
“Somebody else has been doing the same thing,” observed Ned, pointing to
several broken twigs and torn leaves on the thick bushes lining the
road. “There’s been a car, or maybe a light truck through here quite
recently,” he continued, after a closer examination of the ground.
“Probably somebody has got a camp over on the lake-shore,” guessed
Beals.
For half an hour the boys followed the grass-grown track, noting
frequent evidence of its use by some vehicle, but as the country grew
more open, these marks became fewer and finally ceased altogether when
they reached the hard stony ground bordering the lake. The old road
ended in what had once been a pasture, barely a hundred yards from the
Coleson house, and the boys halted at the edge of the clearing to
reconnoitre.
“We can’t be sure whether the car that came through this old road kept
straight ahead to the house or swung into the traveled road outside the
gate,” commented Dick, who was searching the hard-baked ground for a
possible wheel mark.
“Unless the ground happened to be wet, a car or even a loaded truck
wouldn’t leave a mark on this hardpan,” agreed Ned. “Let’s see if we can
find any tracks on that stretch of sand between the house and the lake.”
Approaching the rear of the building, the boys scanned every foot of the
sandy area which ended at the water’s edge. Not a single clue of any
kind rewarded their search.
“There’s the range pole that helped to locate the sunken end of the mine
when they were dredging it,” remarked Dick, and picking up a stone he
threw it accurately at a long stake which stood at the water’s edge.
“You remember, Ned, how the big dredge used to get itself into line with
that stake and a white mark on the chimney of the house and then dig up
the copper ore in bucketfuls,” and Dick hit the stake squarely with
another stone.
“It’s funny how solid that stake is in the ground,” observed Ned as he
noted the slight effect of Dick’s bombardment. “You’d think after last
winter’s storms it would have loosened up or been knocked out entirely,”
and Ned walked down for a closer look at the old range mark.
Dick and Tommy followed at a leisurely pace, which quickened at Ned’s
exclamation of surprise. As they reached his side they saw the cause of
his astonishment. The tall stake had been reset in the earth and its
face, as seen from the lake side, bore a recently applied coat of white
paint. For a moment they stared in wonder; then, as if in obedience to a
common impulse, their eyes turned toward the house. Upon its broad
chimney was a newly painted mark of gleaming white.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” cried Dick. “Now what does _this_ mean? Are
they going to start dredging again?”
“Suppose they do? It won’t bother us, will it?” demanded Beals.
“Maybe not, and yet I can’t help suspecting that whoever put up these
new range marks may be back of the attempt to scare Sam away from this
place,” said Ned, thoughtfully. “I can’t imagine what their reason can
be, but that’s up to us to discover—if we can. Come on; let’s have a
look around at the front of the house.”
Everywhere between the gate and the building were tire tracks left from
the autos that had parked there Saturday night, but it was quickly seen
that nothing could be gained by examination of these confused
impressions. As they reached the porch, Ned, who was in advance, stopped
in his tracks and pointed to the front door. In the oak panel a nail had
been driven and from it fluttered a scrap of paper.
[Illustration: “FROM THE OAK PANEL FLUTTERED A SCRAP OF PAPER”]
Mounting the steps, Ned tore the paper from its fastening and spread it
wide. Upon it was scrawled these words:
“I don’t want company here.
“E. C.”
“Are you going inside, Ned?” asked Tommy in a tone that was not much
above a whisper.
“Sure! Why not?” replied Ned, squaring his shoulders. “We’ve got a legal
right to this place!” and drawing the key from his pocket, he unlocked
the ponderous door and flung it open.
Not a sound disturbed the cool darkness of the interior, and waiting
until their eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, the boys entered
cautiously, peering about with uneasy glances. Everything appeared to be
exactly as they had left it Saturday night. The black cats glared
unwinkingly with their white and yellow eyes, and the painted balloon
skulls grinned in their corners. In spite of the fact that this ghostly
atmosphere was of their own making, the boys were glad to regain the
outer sunlight and lock the door behind them.
“Whoever is up to these pranks has apparently confined himself to
outside stuff—thus far,” was Ned’s comment as he stared again at the
crumpled paper still in his hand.
“What do you make of it? Is it a warning or just an attempt to scare
us?” asked Tommy Beals.
“Either—or both, I’d say,” interposed Dick. “Anyhow, it’s very evident
that we’re being urged to vacate. The question is, are we going to
quit?”
“Let’s get the boys together and talk it over,” replied Ned. “Right now
we’d best be making tracks to catch the next bus at Cedar Hollow.”