“All the poetry seems to be going out of it,” she said. “I hoped we would have at least one visitation from the spirits.”
“You may yet,” Walter whispered in her ear. “In my private opinion this driver person is concealing something from us.”
“Do you think so?” asked Cora, hopefully.
“Yes. He’s afraid we won’t stay if he tells all the horrible details of the story.”
“What object would it be to him to have us stay?”
“Why, he may get a percentage on our board. Or perhaps he has the only mountain-cruising buckboard in these parts, and he doesn’t want to lose trade. Have done with thy queries, Friend Jack,” he went on. “We’ll scare up a ghost or two for the young ladies ourselves, if this sordid and heartless driver person refuses.”
Jack left off with his questions about Camp Surprise, and the conversation became general. The driver, who volunteered the information that his name was Jim Dobson, said there was good fishing in the pool of water at the foot of the cataract.
“All you have to do is to throw in your baited hook,” he told the boys, “and haul out as many fish as you want for breakfast, dinner or supper.”
“That sounds good!” commented Jack. “I’m glad I brought my pole.”
“Same here,” echoed Paul, who, when he had time, was an ardent fisherman.