Night on Cabin Island
It took the boys the greater part of the day installing themselves in
the cabin on the island and “getting everything shipshape,” as Chet
expressed it, by nightfall. After they had made the boats secure they
were obliged to make numerous trips from the shore to the cabin,
bringing up supplies, but by the time the early winter twilight fell
they had managed to make the place very cosy and habitable.
They were too busy to discuss the strange affair of Hanleigh.
Mid-afternoon had brought a rising wind that sent sheets of snow
scurrying across the frozen surface of Barmet Bay and they saw that a
storm was approaching, which made them more anxious to get settled by
night.
They drew lots for the position of cook, the agreement being that each
boy should alternate, a day at a time. Chet, to his relief, won the
first appointment. As he did not relish the business of tramping back
and forth to the ice-boats in the snow, the arrangement was to his
entire satisfaction and he was soon busying himself at the warm stove
endeavoring to prepare a savory stew for their evening meal.
“Looks like a dirty night,” commented Frank, as he gazed out over the
bay. “I’m glad we’ll be all snug and settled.”
Blankets had been brought up, the beds had been made, the cupboard had
been stocked and the main food supplies had been stored in a little room
just off the kitchen. The lamps had been filled with oil, and Biff had
even tacked a few highly colored pictures on the walls, “to take away
the bare look of the place.”
By nightfall one would have thought the adventurers had been living in
the cabin for months.
The rising wind soon became a storm. As darkness fell, the snow began
beating against the cabin windows and the gale howled down the great
chimney. The boys had decided against using the fireplace for cooking
purposes, the kitchen stove being more adaptable, but a roaring fire had
been built and it cast a ruddy glow throughout the main room of the
cabin.
Chet, with an apron tied about his corpulent waist, emerged from the
kitchen from time to time, reporting the supper as “nearly ready,” and
each announcement was greeted with groans, for the fragrant odors were
whetting the boys’ appetites. At last, however, the table was laid, the
steaming plates of stew were brought forth, and the boys fell to. Second
helpings were in order, for the stew was excellent and the lads were
hungry. Bread and butter, canned peas and corn, an immense mince pie and
tin cups of hot coffee went the way of the stew, and in due time the
boys sat back, sighing that they could not manage another bite.
Chet beamed with satisfaction when the others complimented him on the
meal. The boys sat about the table for a while, laying plans for the
forthcoming week, and then they washed the dishes. After that, they
explored the rambling old cabin and finally sprawled on rugs before the
roaring fire.
“Listen to that wind!” exclaimed Joe. “It sure makes me glad to be
indoors by a warm blaze.”
“With a full stomach,” amended Chet.
“You _would_ think of that.”
“The place wouldn’t seem half as cosy without that fireplace,” said
Biff.
Frank regarded the great stone chimney.
“It certainly is a whopper. I wonder what Hanleigh was so interested in
it for.”
“Let’s forget about Hanleigh,” said Chet. “He won’t bother us any more.”
“Let’s hope not. But, just the same, I’d like to know why he was making
all those measurements.”
“If he comes back, we’ll heave him into a snowdrift and teach him a
lesson,” suggested Biff. “We won’t let him spoil our holiday.”
Outside, the storm had become a blizzard. Joe went to the window. He
could see nothing but driving snow, and the wind was howling down upon
the island. The cabin, staunchly built, scarcely trembled before the
impact of the winter gale. The activities of the day had left the boys
tired and they decided to go to bed early.
In due time, after much scuffling about and after Biff had chastised
Chet for trying to hide his socks in the woodpile, the boys retired for
the night and blew out the lamps. The fire glowed red and the night wind
howled down the chimney. Under the heavy blankets, the lads were warm
and comfortable.
Silence descended upon the cabin.
The boys were just snuggling down to sleep when a terrifying sound rose
above the clamor of the wind.
“Owoooooo!”
It was like the wail of some anguished spirit.
With one accord, the boys felt their hair rising upon their scalps. No
one said a word. The dreadful wail died away, then broke out again.
“Owoooooo!”
Then came Chet’s voice, from between chattering teeth.
“Wh—wh—what was that?”
“Some of you chaps playing a joke on us?” demanded Frank suspiciously.
“N-not m-me,” declared Chet.
“Me neither,” said Joe.
“It wasn’t me,” Biff clamored.
Just then the sound broke out afresh.
“Owoooooo!”
It was a long-drawn-out, moaning sound that rose in volume to a
veritable shriek, indescribably terrifying.
“Ghosts!” clamored Chet.
“There aren’t any such things!” snorted Joe. “It must be the wind.”
“You n-never heard the w-wind make a n-noise like that before, d-did
you?” stammered Chet.
The other boys were forced to admit that they never had. The sound had a
quality that was almost human. Besides, they had been listening to the
howling of the wind all evening and at no time had it approached that
mournful wail they had just heard.
“Maybe somebody is lost out in the snow and crying for help,” suggested
Biff.
“How could anybody get out to this island on a night like this?”
“Wait till we hear it again.”
They listened. For a long time they did not hear the mysterious sound.
Then, with a suddenness that made them all jump convulsively, the
wailing was resumed.
“Owoooooo!”
This time, the noise lasted a good ten seconds, rising to a shriek of
terror, then dying away to a dismal moaning.
“It’s right in this cabin!” Chet said, in a muffled voice which
indicated that he had hidden his head beneath the blankets. “It’s
ghosts—I know it.”
“Ghosts, my foot!” exclaimed Frank, scrambling out of bed. “I’m going to
find out what is making that racket.”
“Be careful,” warned Joe nervously.
“I’ll help you,” declared Biff. He, too, got out of bed, and then there
was a yelp of pain, followed by a crash.
“Ow!” yelled Biff.
“What happened?” demanded the others in chorus.
“I barged into a chair. Stubbed my big toe. Ow!”
This relieved the tension a trifle. The others snickered at Biff’s
predicament. Frank lit the lamp and in its glow the boys were revealed,
shivering in their pajamas. Chet’s round face peeped out above a heap of
blankets.
“Owoooooo!”
The dreadful sound broke out again. Chet dived beneath the blankets.
“That’s the queerest howl I ever heard,” declared Biff, rubbing his
injured toe. “It certainly isn’t the wind.”
“It certainly isn’t a human being,” said Frank.
“It can’t be a dog,” volunteered Joe.
“Nor a cat.”
“Then what is it?”
“Ghosts!” bellowed Chet, from beneath the blankets. “Put out that lamp.”
Frank, however, raised the lamp on high and began to prowl about the
cabin.
“The noise seemed to come from over this way,” he said, moving toward
one of the big windows near the front.
Even as he spoke, the sound broke out afresh, immediately above his
head.
Frank looked up. He could see nothing, yet that mournful wailing
continued, and at last died away again.
“There’s certainly nothing up there,” he announced, peering into the
shadows.
“There must be!” exclaimed Biff, close at his heels.
“Hold the lamp. I’ll soon find out.”
Biff took the lamp, and Frank dragged a chair over to the wall. He stood
on the chair and began examining the surface of the logs. At last, just
when the sound broke out again, he gave vent to a howl of laughter.
“I’ve found it!”
“What was it?”
Biff raised the lamp.
“Here’s your ghost. Come and see it, Chet. A glass ghost.”
Frank was pointing to an object embedded between two logs. Chet, his
fears laid at rest, emerged from beneath the blankets and came over.
There was a small hole between the logs where the plaster had fallen
away. Some one, for some unknown reason, had placed the neck of a bottle
in this hole in order to plug it up. On the floor below lay the cork,
which had somehow worked its way loose from the bottle neck. The wind,
whistling through the glass tube, had created the doleful, fearful
sounds the boys had heard.
“Ghosts!” said Frank significantly, as he stepped down, picked up the
cork and replaced it in the neck of the bottle.
“I didn’t _really_ think it was a ghost,” murmured Chet lamely.
Then the boys began to laugh. Although they had refused to admit it, all
had been puzzled and more or less frightened by the uncanny wailings,
and their relief was now expended in shrieks of laughter at their own
expense. But the brave Chet, who had even refused to search for the
cause of the sound, came in for his full share of ridicule.
The ghost was not heard again that night. But it was another hour before
the boys finally fell asleep, snickering to themselves.