“Aerodrome.”
“A ghost in the aerodrome?” questioned Mr. King, derisively. “Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“Yes.”
“Nonsense! Here, Grimshaw, help me get this fellow back to his post of duty.”
Between them they forced the man along the walk. He gurgled, quaked, and held back as they neared the gates of the enclosure. They found these locked, as also the door to the old factory, when they reached it.
“I locked it in,” quavered the frightened watchman. “Don’t—don’t let it out!”
“You’re a fine guardian of property, you are,” censured the airman, severely. “Here we are,” and as he opened the door, Mr. King snapped on the electric lights. The watchman sank to a chair and crouched as he directed a scared glance around the place.
“Where’s your ghost?” derided the aviator quickly.
“I—I don’t see him now,” grunted the watchman.
“I guess you don’t,” scoffed Grimshaw. “You must be a weak one to fly into a tantrum like this over nothing.”