“Go back to your grave!” he yelled. “No plotting there! No violence—nothing but rest!”
“Now, I tell you what, mates,” broke in Cap’n Wiley protestingly; “between spook voices and this maniac, I am on the verge of nervous prostration. If I had a bottle of Doctor Brown’s nervura, I’d drink the whole thing at one gulp.”
Having shouted the words quoted, Worthington crouched on the ground and covered his face with his hands.
“What do you think about it now?” whispered Bart in Frank’s ear. “Whoever it is, he knows about Benson Clark and his claim. He knows you buried Clark. How do you explain that?”
“I can see only one explanation,” answered Frank, in a low tone. “This man has been near enough at some time when we were speaking of Clark to overhear our words.”
“This man,” muttered Wiley. “Why, jigger it all! it claims to be an ethereal and vapid spook.”
“Don’t be a fool, Wiley!” growled Hodge. “You know as well as we do that it is not a spook.”
“You relieve me greatly by your assurance,” said the sailor. “I have never seen a spook, but once, after a protracted visit on Easy Street, I saw other things just as bad. I don’t think my nerves have gained their equilibrium.”
“What will we do about this business, Merry?” asked Hodge.
“I don’t propose to be driven away from here by any such childish trick,” answered Frank grimly. “We will not build another fire to-night, for I don’t care to take the chances of being picked off by any one shooting at us from the dark. However, we will stay right here and show this party that he cannot frighten us in such a silly manner.”