“Maybe it was a man dressed in white,” said Harry. “One of the old deer-hunters from up in the mountains.”
“A hunter wouldn’t go around moaning like a cow with the toothache,” returned Boxy.
“Well, you don’t mean to say that you believe in ghosts?” asked Jack, plumply.
“I never did before,” replied Boxy, evasively.
“Well, let me tell you that there are no such things, never were, and never will be. Either you were dreaming, or the object was some man or some animal.”
“Maybe you want to go after it and find out?” cried Boxy, quickly.
“That’s just what I’m going to do.”
“So am I,” added Harry. “We’ll take our guns and compel his ghostship to give an account of himself.”
“You had better look out!” cried Pickles, nearly terror-stricken at the idea. “Dat ghost dun cotch you an’ you nebber be hurd ob no moah!”
“Nonsense!” laughed Jack. “Which way did the thing go, Boxy?”