“Pay me first!” grinned Terry. “Money back if I fail to come across.”
The four cadets set out at a brisk pace up the slope of the Ridge. It was heavily wooded and every now and then they came across a clearing in which a farmhouse could be seen. They were not long in reaching the very top of the series of hills called Rustling Ridge and they paused to look down into the opposite valley from the one above which their camp was pitched.
“Nice picture,” observed Terry. “Why do they call this place Rustling Ridge?”
“In the fall, when the wind blows hard, the leaves rustle, and from that fact comes the name,” Don volunteered.
“How’d you learn that?” Vench wanted to know.
“I asked a farm boy who was watching us play baseball the other day,” replied the infantry lieutenant.
“Look at that old house up there,” called out Jim, pointing to a huge square structure that showed a battered roof with leaning chimneys over the tops of the trees. “Looks like a fitting habitation for the ghost of this place.”
“Just about,” agreed Vench. “But that little cabin down below looks better to me, because I bet we can get a good drink at the place. Let’s go down.”
The others agreed and they tramped down the side of the slope toward a plain little cabin, constructed of unpainted boards, with a roofed front porch on it. At some distance below them they could see the largest town in the county.
“What town is that?” asked Jim.