“Do you believe her story, Jerry?”
“Sure thing. Don’t you?”
“She may be cuckoo.”
“You’re cuckoo!”
His eyes began to dance.
“Oh, boy, if only we could sleep in the room where the old man died! The ‘ghost’ would get the surprise of his life, huh, when we yanked his sheet off?”
“I don’t like it,” I told him. But I wasn’t scared. No. Ready to stand by him, as a loyal chum should, what worried me, I guess, was the thought that I might not be gritty enough to do my part in some of the crazy situations that were sure to bob up if we started any of the “ghost-catching” business. For “ghost-catching,” let me tell you, even when the “ghost” is a man and not a real spook, is a mighty risky game, and nothing else but.
I’ll never forget our first trip into the upper rooms of the big house. At every step I expected something to grab me. We went up the big front staircase, through all the rooms, one after another, where we looked under the beds and in the closets, then down the smaller back stairs. We went through the attic, too, finding all kinds of trash there.
Poppy’s “tramp” theory exploded into thin air, we landed back in the kitchen at ten-thirty, having used the small back staircase in coming down, as I say. Suddenly a fearful clatter came from the road.
“Listen!” cried the leader. Then he laughed. “Does it sound familiar to you, Jerry?”