“He looked like he was right mean, if that’s any help,” says Plunk.
“Where you goin’ to git your ghosts?” I was curious to find out.
“These here’ll be sling-shot ghosts.”
“G’wan!” I sneered; but I was pretty sure he’d hit on some scheme better than ordinary.
“What’s the scary part to the ghost stories you know?” he asks.
I thought it over, remembering all the hair-raising stories I ever heard—sort of telling them over to myself to see what was the part that made them creepy. Well, sir, you’d be surprised, but it was the same thing in every one of them—noises. That was it—noises—mysterious noises that you couldn’t see any reason for. It didn’t matter what the noise was, just so there wasn’t anything around to make it. It could be a door squeaking or a chair moving or a footstep or a cat miauing or anything. I told Mark.
He nodded three times. “Sure—noises. Well, we’re goin’ to give this feller noises—mysterious noises.”
“How?”
“Sling-shots. See that dinner-bell?” He pointed to an old dinner-bell hanging on the pole back of the house.
We could see it, all right, but we couldn’t see what good it was going to do.