“Cut out the romantic slush, and give ’em the facts,” broke in Jack. “It’s a mill that was built somewhere around the Revolutionary time,” he went on, “and the story goes that some women and children who took refuge here during an Indian attack were killed by the savages.”
“Oh!” murmured the girls.
“Really, Jack?” asked his sister, who knew him well.
“That’s a fact,” declared Blake, “only he puts it so crudely. He might add that on the anniversary of the massacre the moans of the—er—of those who were cut down in the flower of their youth—echo through the old mill.”
“Stop it!” demanded Natalie. “Even in daylight that’s bad enough. If you try to tell that after dark we—we’ll——”
“Use the ammonia gun on him!” threatened Mrs. Bonnell.
“Well, I’m only telling you the story,” declared Blake. “You don’t have to believe it.”
“And does that old man who helped us live here?” asked Alice.
“In a little shack around in the back,” said Phil. “Come on, we’ll look at it, and then we’ll go in the mill.”
“And does he live in there?” came a chorus from the girls, as they viewed the little shack which the boys pointed out to them. It was a mere hut, consisting of but a single room, into which they looked through not too clean a window.