“Well, you darling!” gasped Jessie.
Her chum leaned against the door jamb while peal after peal of laughter shook her. She could just put out her hands and make motions at the freckled little girl.
“She—she—she––”
“For pity’s sake, Amy Drew!” exclaimed Jessie. “You’ll have a fit, or something.”
“She—she didn’t even—stop—chewing!” Amy got out at last.
“Bless her heart! She’s the bravest little thing!” Jessie declared, shakingly. “We two great, big girls should be ashamed.”
“I guess you ain’t so much acquainted with snakes as I am,” Henrietta said, sliding onto the bench again. “But I certainly am glad it wasn’t Carter’s ha’nt.”
“But,” cried Amy, still weak from laughing, “it was the ghost. Of course, those snakes had a home upstairs there. Probably in the chimney. And every time anybody came here to picnic and built a fire, they got warmed up and started moving about. Thusly, the ghost stories about the Carter house.”
“Your explanation is ingenious, at any rate,” admitted Jessie. “Ugh! They are still writhing. Are you sure they are dead, Henrietta?”
“That’s the trouble with snakes,” said the child. “They don’t know enough to keep still when 80 they’re dead-ed. I smashed their heads good for ’em.”