Just before he reached the edge of the woods Mr. Tremaine halted, for Dixon rushed out from under the trees at him. The young man was panting.
“You act as though you’d really seen the ghost,” laughed Henry Tremaine, dryly.
“I—I—guess I did!” gasped Dixon. “It was something white, anyway, and about ten feet high—an indescribable, almost shapeless mass of white.”
“You fired four shots at it?”
“Yes; almost at arm’s length.”
“Did it drop?”
“No; nor run away. It came straight at me—my legs saved me.”
“Let’s go back into the woods after it,” proposed Tremaine, intrepidly.
But Oliver Dixon caught at his host’s arm, muttering hoarsely:
“N-n-not until I get my nerve back, anyway!”