“Got some string?” says Mark.
I gave him a fish-line that I had in my pocket. He cut it and fastened the cans together with a piece about four feet long. Then he went toward the stairs as still as a fish swimming in a lake. He had taken off his shoes. In two jerks of a lamb’s tail he was back.
“What did you do?” says I.
“Sit still and wait,” says he.
“Let’s hide behind the counter, then,” says I.
We did. For half an hour we scrooched down behind that counter, waiting. Then all of a sudden there was a little jangle at the head of the stairs, and right on top of it there was a big jangle followed by a yell, and somebody came bumpety-bump down head over heels, with those tin cans whanging and banging after him. I knew right off what Mark had done. He had put one can on each side of the stairs at the top, with the string stretching across between them. As soon as Mr. Jap came along his feet hit the string and jerked the cans together behind him with a bang. Then he’d tripped and come down head over apple-cart.
He hit the bottom with a whang, pretty scared by that time, I calculate. In a jiffy he was on his feet and streaking it for the door. Just as he got opposite us Mark Tidd let out the worst screech I ever heard. It sounded like a combination of a wildcat and a fire-whistle. Spooky? It was the blood-curdlingest yell I ever heard.
The Jap let out one squawk and dived at the door head first. Then he ran.
I just laid back and laughed, not out loud, you understand, but silent, like Natty Bumppo in the Leatherstocking Tales. I was even with that Jap for the scare he gave me, all right—even and a little over. I’ll bet he thought the hotel was haunted by the worst kind of a ghost, and I’ll bet he didn’t stop running till somebody stopped him.
“G-guess we can go to bed now,” says Mark. “Don’t believe anybody’ll come foolin’ around again till mornin’.”