“If Grissy shoots me, it will be on my own land,” he said aloud.
He cautiously followed the stream until, several hundred yards farther on, and overhanging the creek, he came upon the log cabin in which big Paul had reported the presence of a ghost. Paul’s story had not interested him particularly, but now that he was in the neighbourhood he resolved to visit the cabin and learn if possible how ghosts amuse themselves by day. He had thrust a revolver into his pocket before leaving the house, and while he had no idea that ghosts may be shot, he now made sure that the weapon was in good order. As he sat on a log slipping the cylinder through his fingers he heard whistling farther along the creek, followed quickly by the snapping of twigs under a heavy tread, and a moment later a tall, slender man broke into view.
The stranger was dressed like a countryman, but he was unmistakably not of the Ardsley force of workmen, for these wore a rough sort of uniform. His hands were thrust carelessly into the side pockets of a gray jeans coat. They were thrust in deep, so that the coat sagged at the pockets. His trousers were turned up from a pair of rough shoes, and he wore a gray flannel shirt, the collar of which was guiltless of a tie. He was smooth shaven, and carried in his mouth a short pipe, which he paused to relight when about a dozen yards from Ardmore. Then, as he held the lighted match above the pipe bowl for an instant to make sure his tobacco was burning, Ardmore jumped up and covered him with the pistol.
“I beg your pardon,” said the master of Ardsley, “but you’re my prisoner!”
The stranger shook the flame out of the match-stick carefully and threw it away before turning toward his captor.
“Young man,” he said with perfect self-possession, “don’t fool with that gun; it might go off.”
His drawl was characteristic of the region; his tone was one of amused tolerance. Ardmore was short of stature, and his knickerbockers, leggings, and Norfolk jacket were not wholly consonant with the revolver, which, however, he levelled very steadily at the stranger’s head.
“You are an intruder on my property,” said the master of Ardsley, “and unless I’m much mistaken you have been playing ghost in that cabin. I’ve heard about you. Your gang has been cutting off my timber about long enough, and this game of playing ghost to scare my men won’t do.”
“Stealing your timber?” And the stranger was clearly surprised. He held his pipe in his hand with his thumb over the bowl and seemed to take a more serious interest in his captor.
“And now,” continued Ardmore, “I’m about tired of having this end of the country run by the Appleweights, and their disreputable gang, so I’m going to lock you up.”