“Well,” grinned Poppy, as he slid out of his clothes, “I wonder what the program is for to-night.”
He was thinking about the ghost, of course.
“Maybe we ought to take turns staying awake,” says I.
“Nix. We want the ghost to come. And it won’t come if we aren’t asleep.”
“Just back up,” I fired at him, fishing my nightie out of the little bag that held my truck—an extra shirt, tooth brush, and things like that—“if you think that little sugar plum is going to let old spooky foot catch him asleep.”
“The ghost isn’t going to catch us—we’re going to catch it.”
“‘It’ or ‘him,’ which?”
“It’s a ‘him,’ all right.... I wonder who it is.”
Bang! went a bucket of water against the window.
“Some storm!” I cried.