“Three of them,” he exulted. “That last trick was best of all. Three boat loads. Must have carried ten men each.”
As he came near the cabin that had been Johnny’s office, and in which so many strange doings had come off of late, he spied a dim light there.
On looking in he saw a single candle burning on a work bench. Slumped down in a rude chair made of packing boxes, was old Hardgrave.
At first the boy thought him asleep, but upon hearing footsteps the old man stirred, then looked up.
“It’s you, Pant,” he said slowly. “So it’s only you.”
Then of a sudden, sitting straight up, as if recalling bad news, he groaned:
“Pant, he’s gone!”
“Who’s gone?”
“The ghost—Johnny’s ghost is gone. Left us tonight. Left us cold.”
Pant stared at the old man for a moment. “Can it be,” he thought to himself, “that the mere mechanical creation can seem to its creator to take on real life and a personality?”