“Next time I visit that island,” he declared, “I’m going to take the shotgun along, and it will be loaded, too.”
Springer whooped derisively. “Oh, yes, next tut-time you visit the island you’ll tut-take the shotgun!”
“What,” questioned Grant, “would you have done with a shotgun if you’d had one with you today, Pipe?”
“He’d dropped it when he ran,” asserted Springer.
Piper promptly turned on Phil. “If I were in your place, I’d be ashamed to mention running. Like Crane, pursued by hornets, you demonstrated that the wings of Mercury or the seven league boots would be of little aid to you in covering ground when you’re thoroughly frightened.”
“I’m willing to admit,” said Grant, “that the sounds we heard on the island and the conditions under which we made our visit of investigation gave me a few unpleasant and awesome sensations. Nevertheless, sitting here at this moment, I’m much disinclined to admit that I believe in haunts. I reckon it was the approach of the storm, more than anything else, that upset us complete.”
“How about the tut-ticking of the unseen clock?” asked Phil.
“A woodtick, perhaps, boring into the rotten timbers of the hut.”
“And the ghostly knockings?”
“There is no person who has not at some time heard seemingly mysterious rappings, which were afterward found to be of the most commonplace origin.”