“What’s your number?” he demanded sharply.
“Three twenty-seven.” The porter’s wide eyes rolled. “But hones’, Mister Policeman, I don’ know nothin’, nothin’ at all! But you take that sheet, just take it right square along.”
“Did you find something, Sergeant?” a fresh voice broke in.
“Just a sheet that had been stepped on.” Howe looked into the frank, fearless eyes of a boy. It was Johnny Thompson. You know Johnny.
“Gee!” Howe muttered. “I’m glad to see you! Are you in this with us?”
“All my heart and hand!” The hand Johnny gave to Howe was as hard as a rock. “This will be a night and day affair. I’m glad. That’s the sort I like.”
“Day and night and all the time,” Howe answered. “But let’s get out of here. The section is due to move, and I’ve finished. Drew’s scouting around down by the river.”
Thus, while the forces that make for evil had been whirling Red Rodgers northward, the forces that make for good, like faithful watch dogs, were assembling, making ready to take up the trail, heedless of the perils that most certainly lurked beside the way.
The pair had just alighted from the car when of a sudden a startling figure appeared before them. Rounding the end of the car it started toward them—a skeleton with bones bleached white, a white robe flowing behind it! This was the form that in the dim light of the car-yard approached them.
With an involuntary exclamation Johnny started back. Not Tom Howe. With the spring of a panther he was upon the creature. Next instant he was sprawling upon the ground. He had received such a blow on the head as put him out for the count of ten. Then, with a laugh as hollow as a voice from a graveyard at midnight, the skeleton set off at a long striding gallop. He was lost from sight before Johnny could recover from his surprise or Tom Howe could scramble to his feet.