She stopped in the middle of her rhapsody. A pair of small beady eyes looked down on her. She could distinguish a wing—then another. It moved! more wings—more beady eyes. Wings fluttered—began to circle near them.
“Bats! The place is full of them. They can attack us—get into our hair!”
Without a moment’s delay, they flung hands over their heads and rushed to get out, stumbling over the ancient doorsill in their hasty exit.
Once out in the sunny meadow, Lynne laughed at herself. “I feel like a goose running out the way I did. Who ever heard of bats attacking anyone?”
“Is that so?” Judy said warmly. “One night a few summers back a bat got into my bedroom. It flapped around horribly, looking for me. I still get the creeps when I think of it. If Grandpa hadn’t come in—”
“O.K. I’ve heard of bats in the belfry,” Lynne said dryly, “but never mind. Have it your own way.”
They walked on to examine the few remaining houses. Except for the ruins of a fence and an upside-down hut that was probably once an outhouse, nothing remained to indicate that people once lived there.
“Ashcroft is sure a ghost town,” they both agreed.
They started to trudge back. They had gone further than they expected and found the walking hard and tiring. When they stopped once or twice to rest, they thought they heard the unmistakable chop chop of an ax. Following the direction of the sound, they came upon a cabin, no larger than a good-sized woodshed. Near it stood a man swinging his ax with an easy, steady rhythm.
He looked up as they approached and said, in answer to their greeting, “’Tis a fine morning.” He nodded and smiled at them.