“Glad to,” nodded Kent, falling into step beside him. “I want to do some studying a little later, and, after the supper I ate, I felt the need for a brisk walk. I was going to drop in and see you for a second before going back to the midnight oil.”
“I wanted to see you,” Barry informed him. “I’ve got quite an idea in my head for our winter vacation.”
“What? A hunting trip?”
“Yes, but not hunting animals. Hunting spooks!”
“What?” Kent demanded. “What did you say?”
“I said hunting spooks. Or ghosts or haunts or something. Think we could take a photograph of a rapping spook?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kent growled. “It all sounds goofy to me!”
Barry laughed. “It did to me, when my father was telling me about it. Tune in to the proper station while I tell you something about it.”
“I’m tuned in,” Kent said. “You’ll have to make it a good one, or it will all be static. Let’s hear it.”
As the two of them walked slowly toward the business section of Cloverfield, Barry related the story which he had heard from his father. Kent’s light and scornful attitude vanished as he listened, and he soon became as deeply interested as Barry had been. Their steps became slower, and they no longer felt the coldness of the night air. They had arrived outside the brightly lighted window of the hardware store just as Barry finished, and they lingered a moment to discuss it.