McBride smiled.
“Why not? Your old friend Conners is in the troop now. He’s going to join the boxing class next week. Why don’t you come down and see how he makes out?”
Red’s eyes drooped again. He felt a curious warmth stealing over him.
“Mebbe—I might,” he mumbled.
CHAPTER XX
THE HAUNTED CABIN
It was the end of a glorious fall day early in November. Autumn had held back this year and the hills around Wharton were flaming with masses of red and yellow, which stood out against the darker pine and hemlock in raw splashes of gorgeous color. The air was balmy, yet with a touch of crispness which made tramping exhilarating, and also roused pleasant thoughts of cracking fires and the snug warmth of indoor cheer which make the most delightful possible endings for such a tramp.
Eight scouts from the Wharton troop were off for an overnight hike. There had been few enough of these this Fall, owing to the work on the Liberty Loan, campaigns for War Saving Stamps and the like. But now there was a momentary breathing spell and Cavanaugh, McBride and six others from the troop had been prompt to take advantage of it. Amongst the others were Chick Conners and—Red Garrity! The latter had been a member of the troop for just one week but already he was clothed in a complete scout uniform which made a different fellow of him. It was plain that he tried to appear unconscious of his attire, but at times he seemed unable to resist a swift downward glance of admiring approval at the smooth folds of spotless khaki.
Full of high spirits, they tramped along the steep, crooked wood road, laughing, joking, playing tricks on each other, and apparently quite oblivious of the weight of haversack and blanket roll with which each one was burdened. But as they drew near their journey’s end, they sobered down a trifle and began to discuss the cabin with interest and curiosity.
“Of course it isn’t haunted—really,” said Fernald Barber at length, in a pause which followed some especially lurid story.
He had meant the remark to be a positive statement, but somehow a touch of questioning crept into his voice. He was an imaginative boy, and the story had impressed him strongly. Moreover, dusk was approaching, and the trees cast long shadows across the trail.