THE APPARITION AT THE DANCE
Ned Blake found himself still in a very uncertain state of mind, when he
awoke at noon of the following day. After a meal which was a combination
of breakfast and lunch, he set out for Dave Wilbur’s, only to be met
half-way by Tommy Beals and Dick Somers with the news that Dave was sick
in bed with a hard cold.
“He can’t speak above a whisper,” declared Tommy, who had been admitted
to the bedside of the patient. “His mother says he’s got to stay in bed
all day, and I guess that’s the proper dope, if we want him to be with
us for tomorrow night’s dance.”
“What did you fellows find out there last night?” asked Dick. “I thought
of you when I heard the rain pelting down. Did the shanty leak?”
“I can’t answer that,” laughed Ned. “Dave and I didn’t enjoy the comfort
of the shanty—we let the other fellow have it.”
“What fellow—for the love of Mike!” cried Charlie Rogers, who had joined
the group in time to hear Ned’s words.
“That’s _another_ one I can’t answer,” replied Ned quite truthfully, and
he proceeded to recount in some detail the adventures of the previous
night, omitting, however, all reference to his discovery of Latrobe.
“I’d give a million dollars to know what this is all about!” exclaimed
Rogers. “Of course, we want to keep on with our stuff, but I’d hate to
get into a jam with a bunch of _roughnecks_.”
This was exactly what Ned had feared, and he determined then and there
to keep to himself—for the present at least—his knowledge of the
identity of _one_ of the “roughnecks.” Red Rogers was anything but a
coward, and if he showed signs of wavering, there would be slight hope
of keeping fellows like Jim Tapley and Wat Sanford in line. All the rest
of that day, and much of the following, Ned devoted himself to making
cautious inquiries concerning Latrobe, but beyond some evidence of the
man’s unsavory reputation little or nothing could be learned.
“I’ll take a chance on tonight’s dance anyhow,” soliloquized Ned. “After
it’s over, I’ll tell the boys what I know and let them decide what to
do.”
Saturday night found the youthful population of Truesdell on tiptoe with
expectation. Everyone who had attended the first “haunted” dance was
eager to learn what new thrill lay in store for them, and those who had
not been present on the opening night were doubly anxious to make up for
their unfortunate omission by taking an especially active part in this
second festivity. A considerable number of older people joined the
crowd, ostensibly as chaperones for their daughters, but actually with a
secret desire to learn what it was all about. The boys were early on the
scene, including Dave Wilbur, who had recovered sufficiently to do his
part although his voice sounded not much unlike the drawling croak of a
bullfrog.
“Whew!” gasped Tommy Beals, as he stood just inside the front door of
the Coleson house and ran his handkerchief around inside his wilted
collar. “I’ve taken in ninety-five admissions and answered a couple of
hundred questions about ghosts, and the crowd is still coming!”
“I’m hoping we have enough eats and drinks for this mob,” remarked Wat
Sanford, who, in Sam’s absence, was preparing the refreshments. “If
Fatty wilts just taking tickets and answering questions, I pity him when
he starts passing out ice cream.”
“I wish we had fixed up a few good ghost stunts for tonight,” said
Charlie Rogers, as he stood beside Ned watching the couples pour in at
the front door. “This crowd is all keyed up for a wild time and I’d hate
to see ’em disappointed—as they will be if nothing happens.”
“What’s worrying me is the fear that too _much_ may happen,” replied
Ned, anxiously.
“Meaning what?” queried Rogers.
“Well,” resumed Ned, “you and Fatty got a pretty good-sized scare the
night you were out here, and Dick and I saw enough to keep us wondering
ever since.”
“Yes, I was scared all right,” admitted Rogers, “—just the two of us
here alone, you know—but with all this gang here you don’t think that—”
and Rogers paused for want of just the right words to express his doubt.
“I don’t know what to think,” was the sober reply. “The whole thing
seems impossible—and yet it has happened. One thing I’m sure of: there
isn’t going to be room much longer on these premises for us and for
whoever or whatever else is trying to occupy them. As you say, Red, this
crowd has been led to expect some weird stuff and yet it might easily be
thrown into a panic, which would mean the end of things for us. You and
Fatty and Dick and I have seen enough to make us certain that something
more than child’s play is going on around here. What it is or what it
will lead to, I can’t even guess, but I’ll admit I’m worried.”
“Me, too,” grumbled Dick Somers, who had joined the other two in time to
hear Ned’s words. “Why, hang it! somebody might take a crazy notion to
blow up the whole shebang—same as Eli Coleson blew up his old farm house
when he wanted to build this one.”
“Coleson!” muttered Rogers under his breath. “You don’t suppose—”
“Come on, you fellows!” interrupted Jim Tapley, striking a chord on the
piano. “It’s eight o’clock. Let’s tune up and get going!”
The dance was quickly under way, and for several hours the whirl of
gaiety continued with nothing more ghostly to offer than the painted
balloons and black paper cats. As midnight drew near, the orchestra
concluded a peppy fox-trot and made ready to close with the usual
wailing syncopation of “Home, Sweet Home.”
“I guess you had your worry for nothing, Ned,” whispered Charlie Rogers.
“In fact, the thing has been almost too tame. Don’t you think so?”
“Maybe it has,” began Ned, “but just the same I—”
His words were cut short by a shriek which arose from a group on the
porch. Half a dozen frightened girls came plunging in through the
doorway, which was instantly jammed with excited people, some making
frantic efforts to get inside and away from something, while others
struggled in an attempt to get out and see what had happened. For
several minutes confusion reigned, but the braver spirits who had been
investigating outside soon returned with the report that they could find
nothing to cause alarm. Of the group which had been upon the porch, only
a few claimed actually to have seen anything, but these were unshaken in
their statement that a shadowy figure had appeared at the corner of the
house nearest to the woods.
Charlie Rogers and Tommy Beals exchanged a half-frightened glance,
suggestive of their belief in this story; but of the dancers, nearly
everybody considered it either an hallucination or at most a joke, and
as the strains of the final number arose, the dance was resumed and
carried to its completion without further interruption. The foremost of
the departing crowd had reached the line of parked cars and the rest
were streaming out across the porch when their gay chatter was silenced
by a sudden cry.
“There it is again! Look! Look! There, by the corner of the house!”
All eyes turned in the direction indicated and saw outlined in the
dimness a shadowy figure standing motionless. For perhaps five seconds
nobody spoke or moved; then an occupant of one of the automobiles
switched on a headlight and the vivid glare disclosed the form of a man
with a long white beard who bore upon his shoulder what appeared to be a
pickax.
As the blinding light flashed upon it, the apparition threw up an arm as
if to shield its eyes, took a step forward, and dropping the pick from
its shoulder, struck it into the ground.
At the first cry of alarm, Ned Blake had rushed out upon the porch
closely followed by Dick Somers, and as the weird figure raised its pick
for a second swing, both boys sprang from the porch and dashed directly
toward the ghostly visitant. For an instant the figure seemed to
hesitate; then it turned swiftly and vanished round the corner of the
house.
Ned Blake and Dick Somers turned the corner in a breathless rush. Before
them lay the open stretch of sand, extending from the end of the house
to the fringe of bushes some thirty yards distant. Above the line of
trees the late moon hung in the eastern sky, shedding a soft light by
which the boys saw clearly the stretch of sand, the fringing bushes, the
foundation wall of the house—and nothing else.
“It’s gone!” gasped Ned, staring with unbelieving eyes at the space
before him.
“Yes, but where?” cried Dick. “We weren’t five seconds behind when it
turned this corner, and there isn’t cover enough between here and the
woods for a rabbit to hide in!”
Emboldened by the example of Ned and Dick, several of the men and boys
came hurrying forward. Somebody produced a flashlight by means of which
a careful search of the vicinity was made but without result. Borrowing
the light, Ned made a minute examination of the ground along the
foundation wall. The surface was littered with fragments of slate from
the roof, but ten feet from the corner of the house a bare patch of sand
showed amid the debris and upon this small yellow area a faint mark
caught Ned’s eye. With a quick sweep of his hand he effaced the
impression and after a few minutes of further search, returned the
flashlight to its owner.
“Of course it’s all a hoax,” declared a gentleman, who had kept well in
the background while the search was in progress.
“That’s right,” agreed a second, “I guess those two lads had some hand
in it—else they wouldn’t have rushed forward the way they did.”
“Well, if it was a trick, I’ll call it a clever one and mighty well
carried out,” remarked another, as he returned to his car when the hunt
had finally been abandoned.
This seemed to be the general opinion among the guests as they slowly
dispersed. Jim Tapley and Wat Sanford had accepted invitations to ride
home with friends and made a hasty departure, leaving the other boys to
lock up the house and return in Dave Wilbur’s flivver. As the last of
the departing cars went honking down the drive, Ned Blake turned to his
four companions.
“Fellows,” he began in a voice that betrayed his suppressed excitement,
“I found something out there at the end of the house that I didn’t
mention at the time!”
“What was it?” asked Beals.
“It was a footprint!” replied Ned.
“Yeah, I saw a hundred of ’em,” drawled Dave Wilbur. “Half the dance
crowd walked all over that stretch of sand.”
“The footprint I saw wasn’t made by a dancing shoe,” replied Ned. “It
was made by a rubber sole.”
“That’s what we found outside Sam’s window!” cried Dick.
“And as nearly as I could see with the flashlight, it was a print of the
same shoe,” was Ned’s calm response.
“Whew! If that’s a fact, why I feel like apologizing to Sam!” mumbled
Tommy. “I don’t wonder he was scared!”
“What do you make of it, Ned?” asked Charlie Rogers.
Ned Blake turned and walked to the door to gaze with troubled eyes out
upon the moonlit strip of sand, beyond which the line of scrubby oaks
lay dim and shadowy. In a moment he again faced the group who were
watching him curiously. “Fellows, there’s something I’ve got to tell you
before we go any further with this business.” Ned paused as if to choose
his words and continued. “We’ve been trying to find the answer to two
questions, namely, _who_ and _why_. The night Dave and I watched the old
road I settled the first question, and the answer is—Latrobe!”
For a few minutes after this disclosure, the excited questioning kept
Ned busy recounting such meager facts as were in his possession. “I
don’t need to tell you fellows that any business we may try to carry on
against Latrobe’s wishes is likely to be hard going—if not actually
dangerous.” was Ned’s final comment.
“What do you propose?” asked Rogers.
Ned’s answer was prompt. “Somebody started something out here a few
minutes ago. I’m wondering how many of us are game to finish out the
night right here and see what else may happen.”
“Count on me for one,” was Dick’s quick reply.
Rogers and Beals, after an exchange of questioning glances, declared
their willingness to remain.
“Oh, all right. I’ll stick around with you,” croaked Dave Wilbur, “that
is, I will if I can stay inside, but when it comes to another night of
camping on the cold, cold ground, there’s nothing doing.”
“That’s all right, Dave,” agreed Ned. “We’ll make you inside sentry,”
and without further loss of time, Wilbur set about arranging a row of
chairs upon which he stretched his lanky frame.
“Now, fellows,” continued Ned, “this is what I propose: Red and Fatty
will hide in that clump of oaks beyond the driveway and watch the front
and west end of the house. Dick and I will guard the rear side and the
east end. If either party sees or hears anything suspicious, follow it
up and yell a plenty if help is needed. We’ll try to capture this
rubber-soled ghost, if he shows himself again.”