“‘Them’?” The blind man’s voice had taken on a note of quick interest. “What do you mean by ‘them’?”
“Ghosts,” said Mr. Sweetman. “If it was imagination with me, what was it with Joe when he came running hard this afternoon?”
Ice crept up and down the boy’s back, and his stomach chilled. His uncle whistled long and softly.
“What did you hear or see, Joe?”
“Nothing.”
“But you ran?”
“Yes, sir. From the orchard.”
“Why?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“I do,” Mr. Sweetman said with stolid insistence.