“But if it isn’t a ghost, what is it?” demanded Jack.
“I don’t know, but of one thing I’m certain, it isn’t a ghost. There are no such things, and only fools and kids believe in them.”
“Well, nobody else would be outside in the snow making such noises,” declared Jack. “It is a spirit or something, that’s what it is. Maybe somebody was murdered here and it is his——”
“Say, if you talk any more nonsense, I’ll—I’ll—” burst out Tom disgustedly, but just then came an interruption.
It was the sepulchral voice again.
“The-white-death-is-abroad-in-the-land! O-wo-w-ow-oo-oo-oo-oo!”
The voice broke off in a terrifying scream that brought both boys out of the bunk and to their feet. Tom picked up his rifle.
“Maybe it is somebody lost in the woods,” suggested Jack, glad of any theory that might reasonably account for the alarming voice.
“Rubbish! Nobody lost in the snow would make that racket. Besides, there’s all that stuff about death!” Tom shuddered. “It’s got me guessing.”
“It’s aw-awful!” stammered poor Jack.