"No doubt they have. Some one imitated John's whistle; I could do it myself, if I heard it once. Some clever poacher was sharp enough to make use of the late Mr. Dillon's excellent sporting dogs."
"I never thought of that," said Katie reflectively. "But every one here believes in Dillon's ghost. Darby Chute would not go up the woods after dark for all you could offer him; he believes in him, so does Barry. Barry met him once in the dusk; he was carrying game, and he looked so desperately wicked, and shook his gun in such a threatening way, that Barry confesses that he turned, as he expresses it, and 'ran like a hare.'"
"And what is this sporting ghost like?"
"He is very tall, with a long black beard, leather gaiters, and a peaked cap pulled over his eyes."
"My dear Katie, he was the first person to welcome me yesterday! We met each other in the shrubbery, face to face."
"Oh, Helen, no!" gasped her cousin, suddenly stopping and releasing her arm. "Were you not frightened to death?"
"Not I! I felt no qualms, no cold thrills; I received no hint that I was in the presence of the supernatural.—He looked alive, and in the best of health."
"But he was not," rejoined Katie in a quavering voice; "that was just John, the terror of the whole country. Oh, Helen, dear, I hope he has not come to you as a warning," her voice now sinking to an awe-struck whisper.
"A fiddlestick! it was undoubtedly a human being going out to snare rabbits. There are no such things as ghosts; at any rate, if this was one, he smelt very strongly of bad tobacco! Come now, to change the subject, do tell me something more about your bold cousin Barry,—who runs like a hare?"
"Oh, Helen! please, now really, you must not laugh at Barry. He can't bear being chaffed," remonstrated Katie, in some dismay. "He is as brave as any one in reality."