“’Tis this way,” the foreman began, as he shifted his pipe to the other side of his mouth. “Yer father has a contract to deliver four million fate of spruce to The Great Northern Star Company in Waterville, on or before the twentieth of nixt May. We got a good crew here an’ kin do the job all right if things go well; but ’tis a man’s size job let me tell ye and if the logs ain’t thar on the dot the contract’s busted.”
“But that’s not what’s worrying you,” Bob declared as Tom paused. “Come out with it. Where’s the fly in the ointment?”
“Sure an’ it’s no fly at all at all: it’s a ghost, that’s what it is,” and Bob’s laugh died on his lips as he noted the serious look on the foreman’s face.
“What do you mean, ghost?” Jack broke in as Tom paused. “There ain’t no such animal,” he laughed.
“Mebbe not: I dunno, but I saw it meself.”
“When was it you saw it?” Bob asked.
“Jest last night right on the edge of the woods out thar.”
“Did anyone else see it?”
“Only old Ike, and I bribed him to kape it to hisself. Of course I spect it’s a trick of Big Ben to scare our men away. He knows how super—super, hang it all, what’s thot word?”
“You mean superstitious,” Bob supplied.