“I don’t try to see it,” the driver said. “I let the horses pick their way. They’re like cats, I reckon—can see in the dark.”
“What sort of place is this Camp Surprise?” asked Jack, giving Walter, next to whom he sat, a nudge as a signal to play second to his game of questioning. “We’ll get some inside information about this business,” Jack said in an aside to his chum.
“Camp Surprise?” repeated the driver. “Well, it’s a mighty nice place, as far as scenery goes—for them as likes scenery,” he hastened to add. “I don’t care much for it myself. There’s a waterfall, and a little lake, though I don’t reckon you could get your boat up to it,” and he chuckled. “Yes, folks what come up here always like this neighborhood, and Camp Surprise is one of the best outfits around here. You boys are going to take the small bungalow, I hear.”
“Yes,” assented Jack. “If we get there alive!” he said quickly, for the wagon gave such a lurch that Jack, who was on his feet to assume a more comfortable position, nearly slid out.
“Oh, this isn’t anything,” the driver said. “That stone must ‘a’ been put there since I come down this afternoon,” and he chuckled again. “We’ll get there alive all right.”
“But what I meant was,” went on Jack; “what sort of place is our camp? It has a queer name, you see, and they say—at least we’ve heard—that queer things go on there. What are they?”
The driver was silent a moment, and then he answered:
“Well, I don’t take much stock in them stories myself. I never see anything out of the way happen.”
“Oh, don’t spoil all the romance that way!” begged Cora. “Aren’t there any ghosts?”
“Ghosts! Huh!” the man fairly snorted. “I never see any.”