It was sufficient; Charley himself believed that they had made a mistake, and had been desecrating a human skeleton. Was this the ghost of the murdered one, or was it the perpetrator of the deed?
Instinctively the demoralized heroes huddled together, and Marmaduke found comfort in whispering hoarsely, “Now the mystery is going to be solved. I knew it was mur—”
One more shriek! The ghost was very near them now, and its lungs were strong. But it labored under the disadvantage of a cracked voice; or perhaps it was not “in practice.” At all events, the sound was so wild, so awful, that they shuddered with horror—they felt their flesh crawl—cold chills ran down their back.
This is not exaggeration; the boys were not easily frightened; but the ghost—who was at an age at which the voice is subject to changeable and discordant utterance—was exerting himself to the utmost.
“I won’t budge, no matter what happens!” Steve declared heroically.
“No, we must stick by each other, boys,” Will added.
Once again the ghost found voice This time, however, it spoke—spoke in tones of fury. “Who dares to say there was not murder here!” was thundered forth. “Who dares to touch my bones! Let—him—be—ware!”
This was too much. With a yell of horror and dismay, four boys started to their feet and tore out of the “jungle,” morally certain that a band of furious demons was hard behind them.
“Its dangerous to stay,” Marmaduke said, “for that is poetry!”
Four boys fled; George lagged behind. “They’ve caught Jim’s disease!” he chuckled ecstatically. “I’ll teach ’em not to palm off old bones on me! Perhaps they’ll find that I can play a trick that knocks theirs all hollow!”