“Oh, I believe in the lights,” said Dick, “but that’s all I don’t believe they shot Mr Marston and old Hicky; that’s all stuff!”
“Well, somebody shot them, and my father says it ought to be found out and stopped.”
“So does mine; but how are you going to find it out? He thinks sometimes it’s one and sometimes another; and if we wait long enough, my gentleman is sure to be caught.”
“Ah, but is it a man?”
“Why, you don’t think it’s a woman, do you?”
“No, of course not; but mightn’t it be something—I mean one of the—well, you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I know what you mean,” cried Dick—“a ghost—a big tall white ghost, who goes out every night shooting, and has a will-o’-the-wisp on each side with a lantern to show him a light.”
“Ah, it’s all very well for you to laugh now out in the sunshine; but if it was quite dark you wouldn’t talk like that.”
“Oh yes, I should!”
“I don’t believe it,” said Tom; “and I’ll be bound you were awfully frightened when Hicky was shot. Come, tell the truth now—weren’t you?”