"Dea-ath sta-a-alks through the for-r-r-rest!" came the wailing chant.
"That must be the Ripley gang," contended Dick.
"But how can it be? How could they get through the deep snow that won't bear 'em?" Tom wanted to know.
"Then what can it be?"
"Mr. Fits," suggested Harry Hazelton.
"But Fits isn't in the shack, or wasn't," Dave argued. "We haven't seen him around, outdoors or in the shack, since the night we ordered him to go there. If Mr. Fits got away from this neighborhood it was simply impossible for him to get back since then."
"A-a-a-all who he-ear my voi-oi-oice shall die-ie within the hou-ou-our!" came the wail once more.
"O-o-o-h! Please don't!" screamed Hen Dutcher, burrowing in under the massed overcoats. "Please spare me! I'll be a good fellow after this!"
"Keep quiet!" ordered Tom, striding over to the bunk and giving Hen three or four vigorous prods. "If you don't we'll throw you outside!"
"But it's just aw-aw-aw-awful!" chattered the terrified Hen.