“It’s a strange story,” said the Tinsmith, “an’ ef any one but your Pap hed told it I’d hev my suspitchions. But his sugar was damp.”
There was a long silence.
From the cellar came again the weird sound, low but distinct.
The G. A. R. Man arose and seized the lamp from the counter.
“They ain’t no sech things ez ghos’,” he cried. “This is all foolershness. Ef you fellys comes we’ll find out what that is.”
He shuffled slowly toward the dark end of the store. For a moment his companions hesitated. Then the Storekeeper joined the leader of the hazardous enterprise and one by one the others followed. They tiptoed through the door; they wound their way among the boxes and barrels that filled the store-room, and reached the head of the stairway that led to the cellar. Here the G. A. R. Man halted. The lamp in his hand vibrated to and fro, throwing grotesque shadows on the white ceiling and walls. The men clustered about him and gazed timidly into the darkness beneath. He placed one foot on the step, then stopped.
“They ain’t no sech things ez ghos’,” he said.
“Course th-th-they ain’t,” chattered the Miller, who was holding the Storekeeper by the arm.
“It’s r-r-rats,” the Tinsmith ventured.
“Or a l-l-loose b-b-board,” suggested the veteran.