"Why, so far as I know, it just went, that's all. Now you see it, and now you don't. But it was a sure-enough ghost, Frank. I could prove it if I hadn't fallen over that log before I thought of my camera," avowed Will.
"What strange things we see when we haven't got our gun," jeered Jerry, who did not seem to fully believe the story of the others.
"You appear to doubt their words," said Frank, turning on his chum questioningly.
"Oh, I don't think they're faking. That pigeon egg on Bluff's noble brow proves that he was scared nigh to death, and banged into a tree for keeps; but I don't believe in ghosts. They saw something—yes, but I've got a little suspicion that somebody's putting up a fine old joke on the crowd."
"Somebody, eh? Perhaps you'll go further, and state which way those aroused suspicions of yours slant?" demanded the injured Bluff, as he bent his head so that Frank could fasten a handkerchief, saturated with arnica, about his brow.
"Well, didn't we receive plain warning, not an hour ago, that there were fellows hovering around these regions bent on playing some sort of practical joke on us? How about that Pet Peters crowd, eh?" said Jerry firmly.
"Frank, do you believe that possible?" asked Will.
The one addressed looked serious.
"To tell the truth, I can't take much stock in it," he admitted finally.
"And why?" demanded Jerry aggressively.