“Look at them toes,” Bill says, after a while. “Look at ’em, growin’ right out of the side of the foot. No man ever made that,” says he.
“Too big,” Batten agreed, shaking his head some more.
“There’s only one footprint. I looked,” Bill says. “It hasn’t made a mark anywhere else around. I don’t like it, not me. Feet with toes off to the side and bells ringin’ without anybody to ring ’em. I tell you I don’t like it.”
“Shucks!” Batten snorted.
“Well, what made it, then? Looks as if it didn’t have but one leg and come down out of the air just to make a footprint. I wish we was a good ways away from here.”
“So do I, but not on account of the bells or the tracks in the dirt.”
“I never took any stock in ghosts, but that track makes me shiver—and them bells ringin’. And old Willis is so scairt he can’t eat.”
“Come on,” Batten says, sort of savage, “let’s skirmish around the yard and see if we can’t see what’s doing it all.”
“Batten, you can skirmish all you want to, but not for me. I ain’t hankerin’ to meet the thing that made that mark, not me.”
“Shucks!” Batten growled again. “Get a club and come on.”