From one street into another the boys turned, each seeming more dismal than the last. Here and there oil lamps threw weird-shaped lights over gray stuccoed walls, and fantastic shadows trailed across, to lose all outlines in shapeless patches of dark.
At the base of a hill, a lonely lamp shot its rays upon a wooden bridge, and disclosed high banks upon its borders, while a fresh rippling gurgle told of a stream rushing swiftly over a rocky bed. The strong odor of weeds and moisture-laden air came up from the dark depths into which they peered.
"Ugh!" shivered Jack. "Spookish, eh? Worse'n bein' right out in the woods."
"It's something to stir the imagination, fellows," yawned Dave, sleepily.
"And send cold chills down one's spine, too," said Sam. "Listen—was that anything? Bob's going to signal, you know."
"Nothin' but a dog barkin'," answered Jack, presently.
"And Bob's voice never sounded anything like that," chuckled Dick. "Feels like the edge of the world here; Hobgoblinville. Are those buildings or trees back there?"
"Suit yourself," said Dave. He drew from his pocket a huge note-book, and, leaning against the rail, began to write.
"Another inspiration," chirped Sam.
"Those illusive words!" sighed the stout boy. "I can feel the whole thing—but how to grasp it!" He hastily dashed off several lines. "Anyway, the idea is there. Going?"