Jeff Randolph pushed away his chair, rising and signing to the negro to follow. This Ham did, though moving with reluctant feet. At the door of the kitchen Jeff halted, to scowl at Ham and hurry him up. Then both stepped through into the next room. As they did so, both with a howl retreated back into the living room, while an outer door banged.
“Now—what?” demanded Henry Tremaine, rising from the table and rushing toward the pair.
“Well, sir, I don’t want to look like a fool,” retorted Jeff, just a bit unsteadily, “but I certainly saw something in white—and about ten feet high—cross the kitchen. That something ducked and stole out through the back door.”
There was no doubting Jeff’s truthfulness, nor his courage, either, in any ordinary sense. Yet, at this moment, the Florida boy certainly did look uneasy.
“Come along, you two, and I’m going out with you,” spoke Tremaine, decisively, stepping into the kitchen and drawing a revolver from a hip pocket. “If we run into any ghost—then so much the worse for the ghost!”
With Henry Tremaine on guard in the kitchen, Jeff and Ham went, too, getting what food was necessary, then returning to the dining room with it. Tremaine locked and bolted the outer kitchen door, dropping the key into his pocket. After that, the meal was finished in peace, though Ham took mighty great pains to remain close to the white folks.
Nor was there any further disturbance through the evening. All retired, to their rooms on the second floor, before ten o’clock.
“What do you make of all this?” asked Joe, as he and his chum were disrobing in their room.
“Some kind of buncombe, of course,” replied Tom, thoughtfully. “Yet I can’t see any object or sense in it.”