The leader gave a short laugh.
“What was the name of the hermit who used to live here?” he inquired, disregarding the question that the big one had put to him.
“Anton Hackman,” I supplied, out of my knowledge of the island’s history.
The rope was now untwisted into curly strands.
“Take off your cap, Jerry,” the leader laughed.
“What for?” I wanted to know, in growing anxiety.
“Well, if you’re going to be old Anton’s ghost, you’ve got to have long scraggly hair. For whoever heard of a hermit who shaved himself or trimmed his hair?”
I backed off. For I saw into his scheme now. He was going to play ghost to scare the Strickers [[199]]out of their camp, so that we could have the knoll to ourselves in the recovery of the bonds.
“Nothin’ doin’,” I told him firmly.
Peg laughed as he grasped the leader’s proposed scheme of starting me out in a ghostly career.