GHOSTS
Something like a half hour later Philip and Joe passed out of Central
City on the road that led to Squirrel Lake. The sun was still above
the purple, hazy hills beyond the river, but it was sinking fast. The
warmth of the day was gone and a perceptible chill lay in the shadowed
reaches of the turnpike as the chums pursued their unhurried way.
As Philip said, there was nothing to be gained by getting to Camp
Peejay before early dark, for daylight was no factor in the successful
operation of his plan, and so they purposely walked slowly. Each was
lightly burdened, Philip with his violin case, Joe with a bundle that
was no larger and scarcely as heavy. They had taken time to change into
their old clothes before starting. Their conversation consisted largely
of anxious calculations to determine the probable supper hour at the
camp. Philip held stoutly that the steak and onions would not be ready
for consumption before darkness had fallen on the banks of Squirrel
Lake, while Joe chose to be a bit pessimistic and prophesied that by
the time they got there the repast would be over with.
The sun went down presently behind Squaw Ridge, leaving the western sky
aflame with orange light. The shadows in the woods, on the travelers’
right, deepened. From a marsh came the harsh croakings of frogs. A
frail silver moon sailed well above the tree tops, increasing in
radiance as the colors faded from the west. Twilight was well on them
when the two boys left the road and, proceeding cautiously along the
winding wood path, finally came within sight of the cabin.
Philip halted while still a safe distance away and set down his burden,
motioning Joe to do likewise. Ahead of them through the still barren
branches of the trees they could see the unpainted cabin, plain against
the shadows of the forest and the steel-gray, unruffled surface of the
lake. From the window at the nearer end shone a light and from the
stovepipe that pierced the roof orange-colored sparks floated upward to
fade against the gloom of the big pine beyond, indicating that a brisk
fire still burned in the stove. Sounds, too, reached them as they stood
there in the growing dusk; the sound of laughter and of singing, and,
once, the unmistakable clatter of a tin dish against the stove. Philip
smiled.
“They haven’t eaten yet,” he whispered. “They wouldn’t have as much of
a fire if they were through cooking.”
Joe nodded doubtful agreement and waited for orders. Philip viewed the
scene of battle with the all-seeing eye of a general. Then: “The other
side’s best,” he whispered. “We’d better go around at the back. Look
where you’re going and, for the love of lemons, don’t let them hear
you!”
Began then a journey of detour that tried Joe’s patience to the limit.
The trees, young maples and beech, with here and there a spectral
birch, grew close, and between them had crowded saplings and bushes,
and progress and silence were incompatible from the first. Fortunately,
there was so much noise within the cabin that a little of it outside
went unheeded by the revelers, and after ten painful minutes the
conspirators reached the side of the cabin away from the road. Again
depositing their luggage, they seated themselves behind a screening
bush and waited. It was already dusk, there in the woods; a stone’s
throw away, the lake lay placid and shadowed, tiny wavelets lapped on
the pebbles, their sound heard, however, only in the interims between
the noises that issued through the open window of the cabin. Presently
Philip gently removed the wrappings of the bundle and unfolded its
contents. It lay, a pallid blur, in the darkness. Then he settled once
more to the irksome task of waiting. Through the square of window the
light of the hanging lantern within threw a path of fast-deepening
radiance toward them. At times unrecognizable forms shadowed the
casement. From the fact that those in the cabin still moved about and
sang, and shouted to each other above the singing, the watchers were
assured that the supper was still in course of preparation. From Joe
came a deep sigh.
“Isn’t it dark enough yet?” he whispered.
Philip looked about through the forest. “Pretty near,” he answered.
“We’ll wait five minutes longer.”
A hand went out and he drew the violin case closer.
In the cabin, Harper Merrill lifted the larger of the two thick steaks
on a fork and peered at it doubtfully in the dim light. “I guess this
one’s done,” he announced. “Try the potatoes, Pete.”
“They’re all right. Falling to pieces, some of ’em. Come on and――”
“Set that coffee back!” yelled Harper. “Gosh, you fellows would stand
around and not move a hand! Find a knife, Dill, and I’ll cut this up.”
“I don’t see but three plates,” announced Bull Jones disgustedly. “How
we going to manage?”
“Guess those guys didn’t plan to entertain so soon,” chuckled Gus
Baldwin, who, with Charley Nagel, completed the company. “I’ll eat mine
in my fingers.”
“Got the bread out?” asked Harper impatiently. “Why don’t you open some
of that ginger ale, Bull?”
“Haven’t any opener, that’s why! You forgot to ask for one.”
“I didn’t forget any more than you did,” Harper replied truculently,
having just singed his fingers on the frying-pan. “I had enough to do,
didn’t I? I bought the steak and the onions――”
“Gosh!” exclaimed Dill. “What was that? Listen, fellows! Shut up a
minute, Harp!”
Comparative quiet fell and all stood motionless. Harper with a steak
held above the pan. There was no sound save the _lap-lapping_ of the
wavelets. “I don’t hear anything,” growled Bull. “What did you think――”
But Bull didn’t have to conclude, for suddenly on the stillness there
came the most appalling moan imaginable. It began low and deep and
went on and up to end in a shuddering wail of anguish, dying away in
the silence and darkness at last to leave the six boys staring at each
other with wide eyes and tingling scalps. For a long moment after
the sound was still none moved or spoke. Then Pete Brooks asked in a
dry-lipped whisper:
“What is it?”
Bull shook his shoulders and laughed, but the laugh was certainly
forced. “Nothing but a cow,” he declared loudly. “Lost her calf,
maybe.”
“It wasn’t any cow,” protested Harper soberly. “Besides, it came from
the lake. Maybe it was a loon!”
“Loons don’t make a noise like that,” said Charley Nagel, shaking his
head and looking uneasily at the window.
“Well, whatever it was,” said Bull grandly, “it cuts no ice with me.
What you holding that beefsteak up there for, Harp? Trying to cool it?
Gee, any one would think you’d seen a ghost, to look at you!”
Harper smiled twistedly and put the steak back. From the next pan came
the pungent odor of scorching onions, and he pushed the pan further
from the fire and looked about for a knife. Then it came again!
It was less a moan than a high-keyed, quivery scream this time, a
scream of fear and pain that made the listeners’ hair lift on their
heads and sent horrid cold shivers down their spines. No face in the
cabin held much color when the last intolerable note passed sobbing
away into the silence. Six boys stared stiffly at the window. A long
moment went by. Charley Nagel sniffed then and Bull turned to him
angrily.
“What’s your trouble?” he demanded. “What you scared of? Gosh, the lot
of you look like you were dying!”
“You do, too,” whimpered Charley. “I――I want to go home!” he ended in a
wail.
“Oh, shut up! Whatever it is, it’s just a――just a noise, ain’t it? Come
on, Pete! Let’s have a look.” He took an unenthusiastic step toward
the window. Pete hung back, however. “What you afraid of?” jeered
Bull, finding courage in brow-beating the others. “Well, I’m going to,
anyway.”
Shamed into it, Pete followed to the end of the little shack, and after
a hesitant moment all save Charley did likewise. At the window Bull
peered out. Before him the path of light led off into the forest. Right
and left lay only gloom and the dimly seen trunks of trees. “Told you
there wasn’t anything,” he growled. “Some sort of owl or something, I
guess. Gee, you fellows――”
“_What’s that?_” stammered Pete, leaning across his shoulder. “_Look!_”
Bull looked and saw. At the end of the trail of radiance was an object
that wiped away his courage and assurance as a wet sponge effaces
markings on a slate. White and ghastly it was, wavering, uncertain; now
tall and thin, now short and broad; but never still, its spectral bulk
swaying from light to shadow, from darkness to radiance with unearthly
motions.
“_Gosh!_” gasped Bull faintly.
Those behind pushed and shoved, holding an unwilling Bull at his post
of observation, but they couldn’t keep Pete any longer. With a grunt
of terror he hurled himself away and, seizing the nearest cap from the
banquet board, he pulled the door wide and fairly hurtled through it.
And as he went his voice broke startlingly on the air.
“_Ghosts! Ghosts! Ghosts!_”
Charley Nagel wasted no time in recovering his cap. He was but a scant
three yards behind Pete at the porch. And as he took the leap into the
darkness that horrible wail came again and put new power into his legs!
Behind him, although he knew it not, followed four terror-stricken
comrades. Bull and Harper, the last through the doorway, reached it
together and, since the passage was narrow, hung there for a long
instant, clawing, prancing, grunting, ere, with the desperation born
of utter demoralization, they shot through with a jar that shook the
cabin and legged it away in the darkness. In their ears sounded that
unearthly wail, that banshee cry of fear and anguish, and their blood
seemed to freeze in their veins. Bull went fair into a tree, bounded
off with a loud grunt, rolled over twice, picked himself up once more
and after that gained at every leap.
Presently the noise of crashing underbrush, the thud-thud of flying
feet died away into silence. Once more the _lap-lap-lapping_ of the
little waves was the only sound about Camp Peejay.
Half an hour later Philip leaned back in his chair and sighed with
repletion. Joe reached for the coffee pot and helped himself to a
third cup of that steaming beverage, but he did it in a half-hearted,
listless way that told its own story. Before the two lay the sorry
fragments of what had once been two large, thick steaks, and there
remained only traces of many fried onions and boiled potatoes. Of the
dozen bottles of ginger ale but two had been opened. The others would
be presently put away for future consideration. Philip sighed again and
pushed his tin plate further away with a gesture that almost suggested
distaste. “Gee,” he murmured, “I’ll never be able to get home to-night!”
Joe nodded sympathetically. “Wish we’d told the folks we weren’t
coming,” he said. After a moment he added: “They didn’t come back, did
they?”
Philip chuckled. “I knew they wouldn’t. Why, they’re almost to town
now, and I’ll bet some of them are still running! You surely did look
spooky in that sheet, Joe! I was mighty near scared myself!”
“Don’t say anything,” replied Joe feelingly. “Every time you made those
sounds on your fiddle I nearly stopped breathing! Say, what do you
suppose they thought it was?”
But that question had been discussed at length already and the subject
held no more interest for Philip. Instead of offering further guesses
he said: “We’d better get those invitations posted to-morrow.”
“Yes,” agreed Joe. There followed another long and dreamy silence. Then
Philip spoke again.
“Joe,” he said, carelessly, “I’ve been thinking about painting this
place and I sort of guess that maybe it ought to be green, like you
said. You see――――”
“Green nothing!” exclaimed the other. “Where do you get that stuff?
Red’s the only color. Now look here――――”
“I’m thinking maybe red would be too――too bright――――”
“Not a bit of it! We’ll want to come here in the winter, and we’ll want
it to look――er――cheerful――――”
“Yes, but in the summer, green――――”
“No, sir, it’s going to be red,” declared Joe heatedly.
“Well,” laughed Philip, “I guess there’s no sense having another
quarrel about it! We’ll paint it red. Now let’s get the things washed
up and put the place neat for the housewarming.”
It was Friday afternoon that Philip and Joe met Pete Brooks on Common
Street. Joe was for going by with his usual curt nod, but Philip
stopped and greeted their quasi enemy affably.
“Say, Pete, we’re going to have a sort of shindig out at the camp
to-morrow afternoon. About a dozen of us, you know. Going to have
supper and hang around awhile in the evening. Glad to have you come if
you can.”
Pete looked hurriedly up and down the street. “I――I’d sure like to,” he
stammered, “but――but I’ve got something I――I’ve got to do to-morrow.
Sorry! Much obliged!”
He made off quickly and Philip turned a puzzled look on his chum.
“Acts almost like he didn’t really want to!” he murmured.
Joe thrust his arm through Philip’s again.
“I know it,” he agreed innocently. “Wonder why!”