“Puts in an appearance after my departure in the night time. Here’s the gist of it: Every morning when I come down here, the ground under the windmill for a space of about fifty feet is swept as clean as a ballroom floor.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that,” observed Tom.
“I leave the den up here in some slight disorder evenings, preferring to put it in shape in the morning. Well,” declared Mr. Edson, “I find it all cleaned up for me.”
“You don’t say so!” ejaculated Ben.
“Nothing is touched about the apparatus, my papers are not disturbed. One night I carelessly forgot my pocketbook. I found it placed carefully on the paper tab with the contents intact.”
“Well, that’s a helpful, honest, useful kind of a spook, isn’t it, now?” cried Ben.
“I think this harmless intruder sleeps on the floor here nights,” said Mr. Edson. “Anyhow, I’ve apprised you of the mysteries as well as the excellencies of Station Z. I must be going, Barnes,” added Mr. Edson, consulting his watch and arising and taking up his satchel from a corner of the room. “Think over my proposition.”
“I certainly shall,” declared Tom, quickly.
“It’s a dandy chance,” remarked Ben.
“Use your best intelligence and judgment in running the business here until I come back,” added Mr. Edson. “You can come down to the house with me if you like and get some stuff that will help you rig up your home-made wireless.”