“Gracious! More spooks. You’ve got ’em on the brain,” scoffed Percy Simmons loudly.
“Say, just can that comedy stuff of yours, will you?” demanded Harry Ware. Then turning to Ralph, he said, “It wasn’t my imagination, Ralph. I sure heard something in there.”
“Probably a squirrel. There are several on the island,” rejoined Ralph.
“Yes, make a noise like a nut and maybe he’ll come out,” kindly suggested Persimmons.
“Thanks for the suggestion, but I’ll leave that to you. You see, you could do it more naturally,” parried Harry Ware, to Percy’s discomfiture.
“We’ll take a look in there just to satisfy ourselves,” said Ralph, who, for some reason, appeared to take Harry Ware’s report more seriously than did Persimmons.
But a search of the clump revealed no sign of life, human or animal.
“Score up another one to the spooks,” chuckled Persimmons.
But it was no spook or animal, either, that had made the rustling sound which Harry’s sharp ears had detected. It was a man; Malvin, in fact. He had glided like a weasel from the boat the instant the boys left it. Following a circuitous track, veiled from the main path by flowering shrubs and ornamental bushes, he had secreted himself in the clump of plants to which Harry had drawn attention.
He had heard almost every word of the latter part of their conversation, and an evil smile mantled his face as he listened. When the boys stopped short he had glided off like a snake through the screening shrubbery, and as he went he muttered words that boded no good to the boys, should they put into effect their intention of informing the Canadian authorities of the “ghost craft” and its ways.