On either side of this road, within the confines of the camp, were board shacks of every size and variety. They were for every purpose conceivable and, large and small, they were all alike in this, that they had a makeshift, temporary look, and were a delight to the eye of the tried and true camper. They were all alike in this, too, that civilian patriots had charged twenty dollars a day to put them up. This was in odd contrast to the one poor, hapless soul who was to receive three hundred dollars for the work of tearing several of them down.
As the scouts, his one hope now, came up onto the central road and hiked southward toward the main entrance, they scrutinized the weather-beaten and windowless structures on either side for a sign of their friend. But no hint of any human presence was there, no suggestion of life of any kind, save a companionable windmill nearby, the moving wheel of which creaked cheerfully as if to assure these scout pilgrims that the scene of their destination was not altogether deserted. It seemed a kind of living, friendly thing, in that forlorn surrounding. What surging life it had witnessed, what hearty, reckless, resolute departures! One might fancy it saying as it revolved, “I have seen all, seen the boys come and go, and I alone am left in all this hollow desolation.”
The boys paused a moment to watch this lonely sentinel and listen to its creaking.
“That sound would give me the shudders at night, if I didn’t know what caused it,” one of them said.
“Shut your eyes, then listen,” said Westy. “It sounds kind of spooky, huh?”
“Gee whiz, but this is a lonely place,” Roy said. “It reminds you of Broadway, it’s so different. It’s a peach of a place to camp.”
“I bet there are ghosts up here,” Pee-wee said darkly.
“Sure, you’d better look around for finger prints,” Roy said.
“Maybe that old windmill is haunted, hey?” our young hero suggested.
“It needs oil anyway,” Roy said.