THE GHOST INVITED
“DE mail man done been yere,” was the greeting of Ham, as the elated
party walked up to the porch of the bungalow. The darkey held out a
dozen letters to Mr. Tremaine.
That gentleman ran hastily through the letters, dropping four into one
of his own pockets and passing some to the others.
“And one for you, Captain, from Tres Arbores,” added Henry Tremaine,
passing over the last to the young motor boat skipper.
“A bill for something I ordered for the boat, I guess,” nodded
Halstead, slipping the envelope into his pocket.
It was now within an hour of sunset. The alligator had been hauled up
onto the pier, where Jeff, with Ham’s aid, would remove the hide later
in the evening.
“You don’t seem curious about your letter, Captain,” smiled Ida, when
she had glanced through two of her own.
“Is one ever curious or eager about bills?” laughed Tom. “I’ve three
or four accounts down in Tres Arbores for supplies furnished for the
boat. But I can’t settle any of them until we go back to the bay.”
As the air was growing somewhat chilly, with the sinking of the sun,
the others passed on into the living room, where Ham had a blazing wood
fire ready for them. Tom, however, remained outside, preferring the
fresh air.
After strolling about the grounds for some little time, he stepped
into an arbor. It seemed curious to this Northern boy to think of
a leaf-clad arbor in December, but here it was, with vines growing
luxuriantly over the trellis work. There was a seat there, and Tom
sank onto it. He was thinking hard about the robbery in the starboard
stateroom on the morning of their arrival in Oyster Bay. No more had
been said about it by any member of the party, yet with Tom Halstead
the subject would not down.
“Of course, the Tremaines and Miss Silsbee must often remember that I
was the only one outside their party who had access to the cabin during
the night of the storm,” he mused. “They’re all mighty kind to me, yet
what must they think when they sometimes get to wondering? Of course,
Oliver Dixon was the scoundrel. I saw him fix the contents of the water
bottle from that vial of his. He knew that only Mr. Tremaine drank
water just before turning in. Dixon robbed his friend, after drugging
him. Yet what a wild story it would be, backed by no word but my own.
Joe is right; I’ve got to hold my tongue and be patient. Mr. Tremaine
would think it all a cock-and-bull story if I told him what I saw
Dixon doing. Gracious, but it’s hard to keep quiet and wait. The truth
most likely will never come out—and there’ll always be that lurking
suspicion of me!”
After some minutes Halstead remembered the letter from Tres Arbores.
Some instinct prompted him to take it out and open it. Instead of being
a bill, as he had suspected, it was a letter.
“Jumping bow-lines!”
Tom Halstead was fairly staggered as he glanced through that short
epistle in the waning light of day. The letter was signed by Clayton
Randolph, the policeman at Tres Arbores, and it ran:
I am taking this chanse of writing you, as I know the mail
goes up to-day. I am on board your boat most the time,
all is well there. Now I have something to tell you I
know will intrest you. You remember the afternoon of the
day you landed here, you and partner stayed here in the
afternoon, but Tremane and his party drove over to Tunis
that afternoon. Dixon must found a chanse to slip the rest
of the party, for he went to the xpress office and sent a
package to Ninth National Bank New York, said the value
was 3200 dollars. Maybe real value was more but he thought
that enough to make xpress people careful. Now it happens
my oldest boy, Joe, is xpress agent at Tunis. He was down
here to-day and when he heard about robbery he told me
about Dixon sending package. Maybe you can put two things
together. I tell you this because I like you and believe
you’re straight.
Tom Halstead read this illuminating missive over slowly, aloud, with
growing wonder in his voice.
“Wow! That’s clear enough. Then Oliver Dixon _did_ steal the money, and
he has sent it to a New York bank,” cried young Halstead, all a-quiver
with the bigness of the news. “Oh, the scoundrel!”
Nor was “the scoundrel” himself shaking any the less, at that moment.
For Oliver Dixon stood on the other side of that thick curtain of
leaves. Walking about the grounds, with his cat-like tread, Dixon had
heard Tom Halstead’s first excited exclamation. Drawing softly close,
he had heard the young skipper’s artless reading of that exciting
letter.
First of all Dixon’s face went deathly pale. His knees shook under him.
He looked like a man going through the agonies of severe fright.
By the time Tom had finished the reading, however, Dixon had regained
his self-control. There was a deep scowl on his face. His fists
clenched tightly.
“Now, that young cub will go and show the letter. It will be enough to
start even easy-going Henry Tremaine on an investigation. Ruin!” Oliver
Dixon confessed to himself. “Oh, what an idiot I was. And yet I needed
that money! But now I may as well run away from here at once. I’m done
for. Ida Silsbee wouldn’t consider me even fit to be her footmat. I’ll
hustle away from here without an excuse.”
Collected, cool enough, but feeling that all was up, Oliver Dixon stole
away from the arbor in which the dazed young motor boat skipper still
sat, staring at the sheet he held in his hand.
“I guess there’s just one thing to do,” muttered Tom. “That will be to
go and show this letter to Mr. Tremaine. He can do as he pleases about
it. If that robbery had happened within the limits of Tres Arbores,
Clayton Randolph wouldn’t have written the letter; he’d have come here
with handcuffs.”
Dixon, having gained the porch, where he found himself alone, paused to
light a cigarette and ponder fast.
“I wonder if all is lost, though?” he muttered. “If I could only get
hold of that note, and silence Tom Halstead! Then I could try the value
of braving it out for a while. It’s a fearful thought, that of losing
Ida Silsbee and her fortune!”
Briefly Dixon thought of the possibility of being able to bribe
Halstead with a substantial portion of the stolen money. But the rascal
shook his head. Much as he disliked the young motor boat captain, the
thief was bound to admit to himself that the boy would probably prove
incorruptible.
“Especially, if he’s under the witchery of Ida’s eyes!” thought Dixon,
with another burst of miserable jealousy.
“I wonder if it would be safe to steal upon him, down in the arbor,
and——”
Oliver Dixon shuddered at the thought that surged up in his mind. Bad
though the fellow was, his rascality had its limits.
“I’ll wait and see what I can do,” thought the wretched one, finally.
“At the worst, I imagine I could bluff it out, for a day or so, anyway,
by claiming that Halstead had put up a job to have that letter mailed
to him. By Jove, I’ll stay and fight it out, whatever happens, until I
find I’m floored past help. With Ida Silsbee’s fortune in sight, and
Tremaine appearing to like me, the stakes are high enough for a really
brave, desperate fight. That’s it—fight! Against any odds!”
Tossing away his cigarette into the growing darkness outdoors, and
forcing himself to appear wholly at ease, Dixon stepped inside,
greeting the group in the living room with one of his pleasantest
smiles.
Being rather crudely equipped, the bungalow possessed an old-fashioned
wash-room.
Just as Halstead entered, the men-folks were starting for this
wash-room, as Ham had announced that supper would be ready in a few
minutes. Here Tremaine and Dixon removed their coats, the two Motor
Boat Club boys and Jeff slipping off theirs at the same time. There
being but two basins, some waiting had to be done. When Mr. Tremaine
and Dixon started back to the living room, Tom nudged his chum,
whispering:
“Wait a moment, Joe. I’ve something to show you.”
Presently Jeff Randolph, having finished washing and combing his hair,
sauntered slowly out. Then the young skipper thrust a hand into his
inner coat pocket.
“What! Where did I put that?” muttered Tom, uneasily.
“What was it?” asked Joe Dawson, curiously.
But his chum, instead of replying, rapidly explored all his pockets,
then hunted busily about the room.
“It must be something mighty important, whatever it is,” smiled Joe.
“It is,” was all Tom vouchsafed. Then, unable to discover any trace of
the letter, Halstead turned to his comrade with a blank face.
“What have you lost?” demanded Joe Dawson, struck by Tom’s serious look.
“I—I guess I won’t speak about it, until I find it,” responded
Halstead, slowly, in a dazed, wondering voice. He felt as though
passing through some dream. Had he really received such a letter? But
of course he had.
“Oh, just as you like,” responded Joe, readily.
“Wait!” begged Tom. “I want to look—and think—before I say a word, even
to you, old fellow.”
“All right, then,” nodded Joe, patiently.
Oliver Dixon, who had slipped back to where he could see and hear
without being detected, smiled in a satisfied way. _He_ knew where that
missing letter was!
Five minutes later all hands were seated at the table, while Ham, with
the important look he always wore when presiding over a dinner, bustled
about.
When the hot, steaming food was laid before them, Tom was barely able
to eat, noting which, Joe wondered, though he was content to wait for
the answer.
Oliver Dixon, on the other hand, was in excellent spirits, eating
with relish while he chatted brilliantly with his hosts and with Ida
Silsbee. Indeed, his companions thought they had never seen the young
man to better advantage. Ida was conscious of an increased interest in
her suitor.
“Let’s see, Ham,” propounded Henry Tremaine, after a while, “we’re
right in the region of your famous ghost, now, aren’t we?”
“Don’ talk erbout dat, sah—please don’t yo’,” begged the negro,
glancing uneasily at his employer.
“Why not?” inquired Mr. Tremaine.
“’Cause, sah, talkin’ erbout de Ghost ob Alligator Swamp is jest erbout
de same t’ing as ’viting it heah, sah. Ef yo’ speak erbout it, sah,
it’s a’most shuah to come heah, sah.”
That Ham Mockus believed what he was saying was but too evident, so
kindly Henry Tremaine dropped the subject with a short laugh.
“It was one of the tightest places I was ever in,” declared Oliver
Dixon, who was relating an imaginary hunting adventure to Miss Silsbee
and Mrs. Tremaine. “I felt buck ague when I saw that animal’s glaring,
blazing eyes——”
Just at that moment Ham was re-entering the room with a tray laden with
good things.
From outside there came a sudden, sobbing sound. It was followed,
instantly, by a long-drawn-out wail. Instantly this was taken up by a
chorus of high-pitched, unearthly shrieks.
Crash! Ham dropped the tray and its contents, which went to smash in
the middle of the room.
“Dere it am—oh, Lawdy, dere it am!” yelled Ham Mockus, sinking to his
knees. “It’s It—de Ghost ob Alligator Swamp!”