The boys turned quickly, and the three stood not far from the opening in listening attitudes. The sound increased in volume as the moments passed. At first it seemed like the heavy vibrations of throat cords, either human or animal. Then it lifted into something like a shrill appeal, which resembled nothing so much as the scream of a woman in deadly peril. Involuntarily the boys stepped closer to the corridor.
“What do you make of it?” whispered Jimmie.
“Ghosts!” chuckled Carl.
“Some day,” Jimmie suggested, in a graver tone than usual, “you’ll be punished for your verbal treatment of ghosts! I don’t believe there’s anything on the face of the earth you won’t make fun of. How do we know that spirits don’t come back to earth?”
“They may, for all I know,” replied Carl. “I’m not trying to decide the question, or to make light of it, either, but when I see the lot of cheap imitations like we’ve been put against to-night, I just have to express my opinion.”
“They’re cheap imitations, all right!” decided Jimmie.
“Cheap?” repeated Carl. “Flowing robes, and disappearing figures, and mysterious lights, and weird sounds! Why, a fellow couldn’t work off such manifestations as we’ve seen to-night on the most superstitious residents of the lower West Side in the City of New York, and they’ll stand for almost anything!”
“It strikes me,” Sam, who had been listening to the conversation with an amused smile, declared, “that the sounds we are listening to now may hardly be classified as wailing!”
“Now, listen,” Carl suggested, “and we’ll see if we can analyze it.”
At that moment the sound ceased.