Mr. Curtis laughed, stretched out his legs comfortably, thought for a minute or two, and then in a slow, sepulchral voice began a narrative which he called “The Headless Horseman of the Harlem.” It was a tale full of creeps and thrills, abounding in dank vaults, weird apparitions, wild storms, midnight encounters, and various other appropriate settings and incidents. The boys drew closer still, luxuriating in the “spookiness” of it all, and then, just as some of the more impressionable were beginning to cast nervous glances behind them, he ended with a ridiculous climax that brought forth a shout of laughter and turned the whole thing into a farce.
A “round-robin” followed, the scoutmaster starting a yarn and leaving it at an exciting and dramatic moment for the boy on his right to continue. The absurdity of these continuations kept the crowd in a constant gale of merriment, and when the round was made they clamored for another. But it was growing late, so Mr. Curtis substituted a brief anecdote of scout bravery which had a humorous twist. It was the story, so often repeated in scout annals, of a little fellow plunging unhesitatingly to the rescue of a bigger boy who had stumbled beyond his depth in a swimming-hole. The stronger lad seized his rescuer about the neck and forced his head below the water. The youngster was unable to free himself, but with head down and breath almost gone, he hit bottom, and then, calmly walking along it, he tugged along his struggling friend until the bank was reached.
“He simply kept his head, you see, and used his brain, which is one of the best things scouting teaches us,” concluded Mr. Curtis. He stood up, stretching. “Blankets out, fellows,” he went on, “and everybody in bed.”
Each bunk had been planned to accommodate two occupants, so there was no crowding or necessity for makeshifts. The fire was piled up with fresh logs, and though there was a good deal of preliminary laughter and chattering, the boys were too tired to stay awake long, even under the novel conditions. Bob Gibson was one of the last to close his eyes. He had the outside of one of the lower bunks with a full view of the fire, and though few would have suspected his gruff, matter-of-fact manner to overlay even a touch of poetry or imagination, he lay there watching it for a long time, fascinated by the leaping, dancing, crimson-yellow flames, until sleep at length overtook him.
How long he lay oblivious to sights and sounds he had no idea. But it must have been hours later when he found himself sitting bolt upright, every nerve tingling and in his ears the echo of that strange, horrible cry that had shocked him into complete wakefulness.
“What’s that?” came in a tense, frightened gasp from one of the boys across the room.
Bob did not answer. He sat there shaking nervously and straining his ears for a repetition of the ghastly sound. The fire had died down to a bed of dull red embers, and there was a noticeable chill over everything. He caught his breath as a dark shadow swiftly passed him and then realized, with a feeling of keen relief, that it was Mr. Curtis. A moment later the scoutmaster had thrown an armful of light wood on the embers and the fire blazed up, illumining the pale faces of the boys, strained, startled, but all tense with expectation.
Suddenly the cry came again, a piercing, strangled, high-pitched scream that turned the blood cold and brought out beads of perspiration on more than one forehead. It seemed to come from just outside the cabin door.
CHAPTER XIII
WHAT THEY FOUND
By this time MacIlvaine and Frank Sanson had tumbled out of their bunks, and Bob followed their example.