“Hit’s—hit’s—ghos’es!” he shuddered, forgetting his educated diction in his terror.
“Mr. Neale, let’s go and see—” begged Nicky.
“Let me go too?” urged Cliff, “Nicky went last time.”
“Wait till mornin’—please, sar, wait!” pleaded Sam. “Doan’ leave us here for the ghos’es to git us, sar!”
“Now—right now, we go!” stated Nicky. “We’ll settle this thing once and for all. If you aren’t strong enough to fight off a ghost, Sam, I’m sorry for you.”
He had the dinghy alongside. Cliff and Mr. Neale clambered in and held the rail of the sloop until Nicky slipped into the dinghy’s bow. Tom, knowing the small boat had its full complement of passengers, and realizing that his own timidity had made him an enforced companion of a terrified Negro on the sloop, strove to drive away his fear.
“Can you whistle, sar?” urged Sam. “Dey says whistlin’ keeps off ghos’es!”
“Then you try, too,” ordered Tom.
Both puckered their lips and essayed a shrill whistle. It came out each a quavery, hissing failure that the ones in the boat, pushing away from the sloop, peered and chuckled.
“Get yourself a tin whistle,” laughed Cliff, and even Tom had to chuckle at his own tremulous muscles.