"I'd like to have anybody tell me there ain't no sech things as ghosts,"
faltered Uncle Jimmy Borton, who had always said there wasn't. "Let go,
there! Ouch!" The command and subsequent exclamation were the inevitable
results of his unsuccessful attempt to mount with Elon Jones the same
wheel.
"What'd I tell you, Anderson?" exclaimed Isaac Porter. "Didn't I say it
was ghosts? Tramps nothin'! A tramp wouldn't last a second up in that
house. It's been ha'nted fer thirty years an' it gits worse all the
time. What air we goin' to do next?"
Even the valiant Mr. Crow approved of an immediate return to Tinkletown,
and the posse was trying to disentangle its collection of bicycles when
an interruption came from an unsuspected quarter--a deep, masculine
voice arose from the ice-covered river hard by, almost directly below
that section of the bank on which Anderson and his friends were herded.
The result was startling. Every man leaped a foot in the air and every
hair stood on end; bicycles rattled and clashed together, and Ed
Higgins, hopelessly bewildered, started to run in the direction of the
haunted house.
CHAPTER XVII
Wicker Bonner, Harvard
"Hello, up there!" was what the deep, masculine voice shouted from the
river. Anderson Crow was the first to distinguish the form of the
speaker, and he was not long in deciding that it was far from
ghost-like.
Pages:
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147