The Motor Boat Club in Florida: or, Laying the Ghost of Alligator Swamp

Tossing away his cigarette into the growing darkness outdoors, and forcing himself to appear wholly at ease, Dixon stepped inside, greeting the group in the living room with one of his pleasantest smiles.

Being rather crudely equipped, the bungalow possessed an old-fashioned wash-room.

Just as Halstead entered, the men-folks were starting for this wash-room, as Ham had announced that supper would be ready in a few minutes. Here Tremaine and Dixon removed their coats, the two Motor Boat Club boys and Jeff slipping off theirs at the same time. There being but two basins, some waiting had to be done. When Mr. Tremaine and Dixon started back to the living room, Tom nudged his chum, whispering:

“Wait a moment, Joe. I’ve something to show you.”

Presently Jeff Randolph, having finished washing and combing his hair, sauntered slowly out. Then the young skipper thrust a hand into his inner coat pocket.

“What! Where did I put that?” muttered Tom, uneasily.

“What was it?” asked Joe Dawson, curiously.

But his chum, instead of replying, rapidly explored all his pockets, then hunted busily about the room.

“It must be something mighty important, whatever it is,” smiled Joe.

“It is,” was all Tom vouchsafed. Then, unable to discover any trace of the letter, Halstead turned to his comrade with a blank face.

“What have you lost?” demanded Joe Dawson, struck by Tom’s serious look.

“I – I guess I won’t speak about it, until I find it,” responded Halstead, slowly, in a dazed, wondering voice. He felt as though passing through some dream. Had he really received such a letter? But of course he had.

“Oh, just as you like,” responded Joe, readily.

“Wait!” begged Tom. “I want to look – and think – before I say a word, even to you, old fellow.”

“All right, then,” nodded Joe, patiently.

Oliver Dixon, who had slipped back to where he could see and hear without being detected, smiled in a satisfied way. He knew where that missing letter was!

Five minutes later all hands were seated at the table, while Ham, with the important look he always wore when presiding over a dinner, bustled about.

When the hot, steaming food was laid before them, Tom was barely able to eat, noting which, Joe wondered, though he was content to wait for the answer.

Oliver Dixon, on the other hand, was in excellent spirits, eating with relish while he chatted brilliantly with his hosts and with Ida Silsbee. Indeed, his companions thought they had never seen the young man to better advantage. Ida was conscious of an increased interest in her suitor.

“Let’s see, Ham,” propounded Henry Tremaine, after a while, “we’re right in the region of your famous ghost, now, aren’t we?”

“Don’ talk erbout dat, sah – please don’t yo’,” begged the negro, glancing uneasily at his employer.

“Why not?” inquired Mr. Tremaine.

“’Cause, sah, talkin’ erbout de Ghost ob Alligator Swamp is jest erbout de same t’ing as ’viting it heah, sah. Ef yo’ speak erbout it, sah, it’s a’most shuah to come heah, sah.”

That Ham Mockus believed what he was saying was but too evident, so kindly Henry Tremaine dropped the subject with a short laugh.

“It was one of the tightest places I was ever in,” declared Oliver Dixon, who was relating an imaginary hunting adventure to Miss Silsbee and Mrs. Tremaine. “I felt buck ague when I saw that animal’s glaring, blazing eyes – ”

Just at that moment Ham was re-entering the room with a tray laden with good things.

From outside there came a sudden, sobbing sound. It was followed, instantly, by a long-drawn-out wail. Instantly this was taken up by a chorus of high-pitched, unearthly shrieks.

Crash! Ham dropped the tray and its contents, which went to smash in the middle of the room.

“Dere it am – oh, Lawdy, dere it am!” yelled Ham Mockus, sinking to his knees. “It’s It – de Ghost ob Alligator Swamp!”

CHAPTER X

THE VISITATION OF THE NIGHT

AS suddenly as it had started the weird noise died away.

“Get up, Ham, you idiot,” commanded Henry Tremaine, crisply.

“Ah – Ah’s shuah scahd to death!” stuttered the negro, looking up appealingly, but not rising from his knees.

“You look it,” laughed the owner of the house. “But it’s all foolishness. There’s no such thing as a ghost.”

“W – w – w – w’uts dat yo’ say?” sputtered Ham Mockus, turning the whites of two badly scared eyes in Mr. Tremaine’s direction.

“I say that there is no such thing as a ghost.”

“Yo? say so aftah hearing —dat?”

“Neighbors giving us a grisly serenade,” retorted Tremaine, grinning. “Whatever it is, that noise came from strictly human sources.”

“Yassuh! Yassuh!” quavered Ham, as though he wanted to be accommodating, yet pitied the white man’s ignorance.

“You really think it’s all nonsense of some kind, my dear?” asked Mrs. Tremaine, who, though not giving way to fright, looked unusually grave.

“I’m so certain it’s all nonsense – or malice,” replied her husband, “that I’m going on with my supper if I can prevail upon Ham to bring me something more to eat.”

The colored man had risen from his knees, but had moved over close to the table, where he stood as though incapable of motion.

“You heard Mr. Tremaine, Hamilton?” asked Mrs. Tremaine, rousingly.

“Yassum. Yassum.”

“Then why don’t you bring food to replace what you dropped?”

“Yassum.”

“Then why don’t you start?”

“W’ut? Me gwine ter dat kitchen – all alone?” almost shrieked Ham.

“Go with him, won’t you, Jeff?” asked the host, turning to their young guide.