“Country people!” Three voices sang out together. It never failed. A suggestion that they in Pentville were not as metropolitan as their New York chum was always a disputed point.
“A ghost couldn’t live in New York,” Arden said sarcastically. “You have to get out where there is some room for ghosts. Like Pentville or Jockey Hollow.”
“Don’t you believe us, Dot?” Terry asked. Dot just smiled.
“We’ll show you. What do you say, girls—shall we go over to Jockey Hollow before we go home? The bags will be safe. Our ghost isn’t a thief.” Sim slowed down at the junction where one road led to the Hollow, which they would pass as they went to Sim’s house, though at some distance.
“Yes! Let’s go, Sim. If you’re not afraid of the car on those roads,” Terry said, plainly anxious to go back to Sycamore Hall.
Sim needed no urging, and going into second she turned the wheel and very carefully started down the narrow dirt road. On the brow of the hill she stopped and pointed out the faded stone walls of the house which could clearly be seen through the bare trees.
“That’s it, unbeliever,” Sim told her guest. “We’ll take you inside, if we can get in, and show you things your eyes have never before beheld.”
“Lead on MacDuff,” Dorothy laughed. “Whom have you hired to jump out on me and cry ‘Boo’?”
“Word of honor, Dot,” Arden insisted, “it isn’t a joke. You’ll see! Go on, Sim,” she prompted.
Bouncing and rolling from side to side, the little roadster neared the house. The old lane that once approached prosperous farm lands, but was now overgrown and stony, led almost to the door. But knowing she must turn around again to go home, Sim stopped so they could back out.