The Missing Man
Sim, Terry, and Dot were gathered in the big living room quietly talking
over their visit with Granny Howe, when Arden burst in on them in great
excitement and blurted out her newest and latest story.
The “crime sheet,” as they had come to call the history of the Jockey
Hollow ghost story, was hurriedly taken from the locked drawer of their
desk, and Arden wrote in the three new suspicious characters: Titus
Ellery, Pop Warner, and the mysterious dark man mentioned as Nick.
“We’ll have to go over to the Hall the first thing in the morning: they
begin work early,” Arden decided as she finished entering her report.
“Something is going to happen, I’m sure, and we don’t want to miss it.
Those men at the drugstore seemed ready to pop.”
“Suppose that Callahan person just tells us to go away—what then?”
questioned Sim.
“Granny told us we could go through the house, and if he says anything
contrary we’ll tell him Mrs. Howe gave us permission. I guess he won’t
put up any objections then,” Terry said decidedly.
So the next morning the girls tumbled out of their warm beds and dressed
quickly in riding clothes, that sort of outfit being most practical for
the day ahead. The dead white snow covered everything, rounding out sharp
stones and smoothing corners like a layer of lovely new downy cotton.
Apparently it had continued snowing for some time during the night, but
now the sun was shining with a dazzling brightness and a deep blue sky
promised fair weather for the day.
The girls ate a big breakfast, which pleased Moselle. She was also
pleased to make sure that the girls had suddenly become too busy to
bother with the house, so the precious task was all her own.
Sim got the little car out and waited impatiently while Terry went back
for a woolly scarf, but she nearly exploded when Arden, as soon as Terry
returned, discovered she had forgotten her gloves and had to go back for
them. Eventually they got going, only to stop when Sim noticed the
gasoline gage showed nearly “empty.” She decided she would have to drive
to town for gas.
“Oh, Sim!” exclaimed Dot impatiently, “we’ve got enough to go out to the
Hall and back. It will only take more time to go to a station.”
“Yes, Sim, we won’t be driving any place else. Don’t go now,” Terry
begged.
But Sim was firm, and they headed toward town and stopped at a filling
station, the other girls glaring at their little blonde chauffeur while
the tank was being filled.
“I believe in being prepared,” Sim lectured, paying the service man. “How
do you know where we’ll be before night?”
The words were prophetic, though Sim didn’t realize it, for they were
destined to have a queer experience that very day.
When they reached the road that led down to Sycamore Hall, the Hollow now
being covered with snow, they saw tire tracks stretching before them. The
workmen were there, of course. And they were late!
Parked in the spot they thought of as their own special place was an open
truck with the name “Callahan—Contractor” painted on the back. Knowing
what that meant, they looked at each other with questioning dismay.
Callahan himself must be there and would not be likely to leave at once.
Even as they wondered, he came marching out of the Hall, a smile on his
broad ruddy face, and nonchalantly came over to their car.
Giving a tug at the brim of his shapeless soft hat he said jovially:
“Well, we’re back on the job again, ya’ see. I’ve got a fine bunch of men
there now. Not ordinary laborers. These men don’t believe in ghosts,” and
taking a big black cigar from a pocket he bit off the end and searched in
his pockets for a match.
Sim reached over Terry’s knees, took the detachable cigarette lighter
from the dash board, and smilingly handed it to the man. They watched to
see what that might do.
The girls could hear the men stamping the snow off their feet in the
empty house, now and then a loud crash as an iron bar or tool was
carelessly dropped. The voices of the men, in good-natured badinage,
floated out on the brisk air; then came shouts of laughter. Peal on peal,
deep rumbling laughter, and the lighter sounds mingling together. What
could this mean?
Mr. Callahan turned a pleased face to Sim as he handed back the lighter.
“There! These men didn’t run. I guess they’re onto the trick.” He started
toward the house, then stopped and said: “If you girls want to see the
ghost you may as well. Come in with me, I’ll show you what’s been scaring
my men.” There was a bragging tone in his hearty voice, and a confident
tread in his heavy stride.
The girls needed no urging, quickly getting out of the car and following
the triumphant lead of the contractor through the light snow. Once
inside, he went straight to the top of the house, walking with a
precision that showed his determination. Now he would “tell the world,”
his attitude seemed to declare.
Reaching the third floor they found the men still merry. They were in a
room similar to that where the suspected ghostly bed was, on the floor
below. As the boss, with the girls, came in, it was clear the men were
trying to look businesslike.
“What’s the joke?” asked Callahan bruskly. “What’s all the laughing
about?”
A young man wearing a windbreaker jacket and awkwardly holding a crowbar
spoke first.
“We heard groans coming from the chimney, and Pete opened the chute in
the fireplace and threw down a brick. I guess we hit the ghost, the noise
stopped so quick,” chuckled the workman.
“Ghost, my eye!” exclaimed another man. “Probably it was a cat or
something caught in there. Well, you finished him anyway, Pete,” and they
were ready to laugh again.
Arden and the girls drew closer together. “There is that Nick,” whispered
Arden to Dot, indicating a man in the group who alone showed no
amusement. He was covertly glancing at his companions, and suddenly he
left the room.
In an instant he was back, bringing with him another man. Both were
seriously excited.
“Any of you guys seen Jim? He was working with me across the hall, but he
ain’t here now,” declared the new man.
“He didn’t come here,” answered the man who had spoken before. “What’s
the matter? You look worried.”
Callahan stood facing the newcomer, dismay slowly blotting out the
pleased expression on his face. Was this more trouble? Was ever a man so
followed by bad luck? What was going on in this old house, anyway?
“What’s your trouble?” Callahan was once more the boss contractor.
“I can’t find Jim. He was with me, and we were sizin’ up the room,
figurin’ on how she would tear apart. I was at one end and Jim at
another, near a closet. I saw him go in. Then I heard a funny noise, sort
of groan, and when I turned around—Jim wasn’t there!”