THE NIGHT WATCH
A group of excited boys gathered in Dave Wilbur’s garage that afternoon
and listened to the astonishing story which Ned Blake and his fellow
sleuths had to tell.
“So there is somebody else besides us who is interested in the Coleson
house!” exclaimed Charlie Rogers.
“There seems to be no question about that,” agreed Ned, “and what is
more, they evidently want the whole place to themselves.”
“But I can’t see why anybody should want to drive _us_ out,” complained
Tommy Beals in an injured tone. “We won’t horn in on their
business—whatever that may be—if they’ll just lay off us!”
Ned shook his head. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to get that idea
across, Fatty. There’s something going on out there that we don’t
understand; something that somebody is afraid we’ll get wise to. That
letter to Sam and the ‘ghost’ he saw at his window were attempts to
scare him away from the place. This paper nailed to the door is the next
step and is meant for _us_. They succeeded in frightening Sam away; now
the question is, are we going to quit?”
“Not on your life!” yelped Dick Somers, whose wrath had been steadily
rising during this discussion. “We’ve put a lot of money and hard work
into this scheme of ours and I say stick it out!”
“If they’ll be satisfied with trying to scare us with letters and ghost
stuff, why we’ll be able to stay with ’em until we’ve got our money back
anyhow,” said Beals, cautiously. “The dance crowd is looking for almost
anything in the spook line and they will stand for quite a bit of it,
but what worries me is the possibility that if ghosts don’t drive us
out, something else may be tried—some rough stuff, you know.”
“You don’t suppose old Coleson may have a hand in it after all,”
ventured Wat Sanford.
“Coleson? Not a chance!” declared Rogers, positively. “Coleson’s dead.”
“Well, er—even if he is dead,” persisted Sanford, uneasily, “what if—”
“Cut it out, Wat! Use your _bean_,” drawled Dave Wilbur. “As for me,” he
continued, “I’m voting to keep the dances going till I get paid for all
the hard work I did out there,” and Dave yawned wearily at the
recollection of his labors.
“It would be a shame if we had to quit now. Everybody is talking about
our ghost dances, and there will be a big crowd out there next time,”
volunteered Jim Tapley.
“We may have a fight on our hands,” began Ned Blake, “but I’d rather
fight than run, any time! As I see it, we’ve got to find out who it is
that we are up against; what their game is; and why they think we are
interfering with it.”
“Rather a large order, as a starter,” remarked Dick. “However, it sounds
interesting. What’s your plan, Ned?”
“We ought to keep guard over that house night and day for a while,” was
the quick reply. “Quite likely _we_ are being closely watched, and it
would be a good plan for us to do some watching. Two of us can take grub
and blankets and camp there for twenty-four hours, or till relieved by
the next two.”
“That sounds reasonable. Who’ll volunteer to be the first sentry?” asked
Dick.
“We’ll draw lots,” decided Ned.
This was done and the short straws were found to be held by Charlie
Rogers and Tommy Beals.
“All right, Fatty! We’re it!” exclaimed Rogers. “The sooner we start the
better. Get plenty of grub and blankets and bring that big hammock of
yours; it will come in handy!”
The two left for home at once to procure the necessary supplies, and
that afternoon Dave Wilbur deposited them and their belongings on the
porch of the Coleson house.
“Any last request you want to send back to the folks at home?” grinned
Dave, as he backed the car around and headed for town.
“Yeah, tell ’em to have a steak and onions ready for me at six tomorrow
night,” sighed Beals. “It’s going to be hungry work hanging around out
here!”
“I wish we hadn’t floored over this opening into the cellar. I’d like to
get a look down below,” said Rogers, thumping the solid oak with the
heel of his shoe.
“Not for me!” decided Beals emphatically. “I’m for minding my own
business and I recommend that policy to you, Red, but if you’re curious,
you can hunt for an outside entrance to the cellar. I should think there
must be one somewhere.”
Acting on this suggestion, Rogers searched diligently among the debris
that lay along the foundation of the house, but without success. The
heavy granite wall showed no opening and the masonry which sealed the
mouth of the old mine-shaft was undisturbed.
“Come on in and eat!” summoned Beals.
Reluctantly, Rogers gave up his search and rejoined his companion, who
was already making steady inroads upon the baked beans, bread and
pickles that comprised the evening meal. Supper over, the two sat before
an open window, watching the colors fade from the quiet surface of the
lake.
“I suppose we’ll have to take turns with the sentry stuff,” remarked
Rogers, as darkness at last settled down upon the landscape. “I’ll stand
watch till midnight and then you can take your turn for a couple of
hours.”
To this arrangement, Beals readily agreed, and climbing into the
hammock, which had been strung across a corner of the room, he was soon
asleep.
For a while, Charlie Rogers sat, chin in hand, staring out into the
deepening dusk. Along the northern horizon distant lightning was
flashing and from this quarter heavy clouds swept up the sky, blotting
out the stars and reducing the moon to a dim disc, which paled and faded
behind the thickening canopy. Sounds of night life came to the ears of
the watcher. Somewhere off to his left a giant bullfrog bellowed
hollowly for a “jug-o-rum.” A night-hawk swooped past the window with a
startling whirr of wings. From the woods on the far side of the house an
owl hooted lonesomely.
Rogers got up, stretched, and glanced hopefully at the illuminated face
of his watch. “Only ten-thirty!” he muttered. “Gee! This is a tedious
job! I thought it must be nearly midnight!”
Returning to the window, he pillowed his head upon his folded arms and
listened to the soothing splash of the little waves which a rising wind
was sending upon the pebbly shore of the lake. His breathing became
longer and more regular; his body sagged forward upon the sill. Once
again came the hoot of an owl from the woods beyond the house and this
time the cry was answered from a point closer at hand. It was the dull
ache in his arms that finally brought Charlie Rogers to his senses.
Again he consulted his watch.
“Quarter past one!” he gasped. “Great Scott! I must have—”
He paused in mid-thought and listened with every nerve a-tingle. Was he
dreaming or had he really heard something? His pounding pulses were
ticking off the seconds in his brain. Yes, there it was again! A
metallic clink or rattle accompanied by a dull thud—faint but distinct.
Backing away from the window, Rogers crossed the room with noiseless
steps.
“Wake up, Fatty! Wake up!” he gasped. “There’s something doing outside!”
Beals was up in an instant and together they crept back to the window.
The waves were breaking upon the beach now with a steady surge, but
above their murmur a strange fluttering sound, not unlike the flapping
of huge wings, came to the four straining ears.
“It’s outside at the other end of the house!” breathed Rogers in a
scared whisper.
“It’s up to us to find out what it is,” replied Beals, and crossing the
room with Rogers at his heels, he noiselessly opened the front door.
A vivid flash of lightning, followed a moment later by the jarring
rumble of thunder, greeted the boys as they traversed the porch and
crept down the steps. Keeping close to the wall of the building, they
made their way cautiously toward the end of the house and peered past
the corner.
The lightning flash had been succeeded by a pitchy blackness which their
straining eyes could not penetrate, but the strange flapping sound had
increased with their approach and the clinking rattle, as of metal upon
metal, came at irregular intervals.
“Lie low and wait for the next flash of lightning!” whispered Beals
close to his companion’s ear.
Crouched against the wall of the house they waited breathlessly.
One—two—three minutes passed, and then once more the white glare of
lightning blazed forth.
Brief as was the flash, it afforded the boys an instantaneous glimpse of
something that struck them dumb with amazement. Extending from the end
of the house to the edge of the woods, a distance of more than one
hundred feet, stretched a grayish something. It was not unlike a layer
of mist or smoke; and seemingly knee-deep in its billowing, heaving
folds, a bent, misshapen figure, like a gigantic hunchback, stood
outlined against the grayness beneath. It was but a fleeting glimpse,
for instantly the scene was blotted out and with the splintering crash
of quick thunder there came a pelting rush of rain.
“Beat it!” gasped Beals, and together the frightened boys raced for the
door, and plunging into the shelter of the house, they shut and locked
the heavy oak barrier behind them.