“THE HAUNTED HOUSE”
“WELL, you jus’ tell me,” demanded William, “you jus’ give me one reason why we shun’t dig for gold.”
“’Cause we shan’t find any,” said Douglas simply.
“How d’you know?” said William the ever-hopeful, “how d’you know we shan’t? You ever tried? You ever dug for gold? D’you know anyone what’s ever dug for gold? Well, then,” triumphantly, “how d’you know we shan’t find any?”
“That’s ’cause why,” said Douglas with equal triumph, “’cause no one’s ever done it ... ’cause they’d of done it if there’d been any chance....”
“They didn’t think of it,” said William impatiently. “They sim’ly didn’t think of it. In the fields an’ woods f’rinstance—no one can ever of dug there an’ f’all you know it’s full of gold an’ jewels an’ things. How can anyone tell till they’ve tried diggin’. People in England sim’ly didn’t think of it—that’s all.”
“All right,” said Douglas, tiring of the argument. “I don’t mind diggin’ a bit an’ tryin’.”
“You can’t tell it at once—gold,” said William importantly. “You’ve gotter wash it in water an’ then it shows up sud’nly. So we’d better start diggin’ by some water.”
They began operations the next morning by the pond, and had dug patiently for two hours before they were chased furiously from the spot by Farmer Jenks and a dog and a shower of sticks and stones. The washing of the soil had been the only part of the proceeding they had really enjoyed and a good deal of the resultant mud still adhered to their persons. They wandered down the road.
“Well, we’ve not found much gold yet, have we?” said Douglas sarcastically.
“D’you think the gold diggers in—in——” William’s geography was rather weak, so he hastily slurred over the precise locality—“anyway, d’you think the gold diggers found it in one morning? I bet it takes weeks an’ weeks.”
“Well, ’f you think I’m goin’ to go on diggin’ for weeks an’ weeks, I’m not!” said Douglas firmly.
“Well, where can we find some more water to dig by, anyway?” said Ginger the practical.
“It’s a silly idea diggin’ by water. I bet I’d see gold in the earth if there was any without washin’ it,” said Henry.
“An’ I bet you wun’t,” said William indignantly, “I’ve been readin’ tales about it, an’ that’s what it says. D’you think you’re cleverer than all the gold diggers in—in—in those places?”
“Yes, I do, ’f they can’t see gold without washin’ it,” said Henry.
“Where’s some more water, anyway?” said Ginger again plaintively.
They were passing an old house in a large garden. The house had been empty for more than a year because the last owner had died in mysterious circumstances, but that fact did not affect the Outlaws in any way. A stream flowed through the overgrown, neglected garden. William peered through the hedge.
“Water!” he called excitedly. “Come on, an’ dig for gold here.”
Led by William they scrambled through the hedge and trampled gleefully over the grass of the lawn that grew almost as high as their waists.
“Jus’ like a jungle!” shouted William. “Now we can imagine we’re in—in—in real gold diggin’ parts.”
They dug industriously for half an hour. William had a spade, “borrowed” from the gardener. (The gardener was at that minute hunting for it through toolhouse and greenhouse and garden. His thoughts were already turning William-wards in impotent fury). Ginger had a coal shovel with a hole in it rescued from the dust-bin. Henry had a small wooden spade abstracted from his little sister when her attention was engaged elsewhere, and Douglas had a piece of wood. They threw every spadeful of earth into the stream and churned it about with their spades.
“Seems a silly idea to me!” objected Henry again. “Jus’ makin’ mud of it! Seems to me you’re more likely to lose the gold, chuckin’ it into the water every time. I shun’t wonder ’f we’ve lost lots already, sinkin’ down to the bottom among the pebbles. We’ve not found much, anyway.”
“Well, I tell you it’s the right way,” said William impatiently. “It’s the way they do. I’ve read it. If it wasn’t the right way they wun’t do it, would they? D’you think the gold diggers out in—out in those places would do it if it wasn’t right?”
“Well, I’m gettin’ a bit tired of it anyway,” said Henry.
He voiced the general opinion. Even William’s enthusiasm was waning. It seemed a very hot and muddy way of getting gold ... and it didn’t even seem to get any.
Douglas had already laid aside his sodden stick and wandered up to the house. He was pressing his nose against a dirty, cracked window pane. Suddenly he shouted excitedly.
“I say ... a rat ... there’s a rat in this room!”
The Outlaws gladly threw away their spades and rushed to the window. There was certainly a rat. He sat up upon his hind legs and trimmed his whiskers, staring at them impudently. All thought of gold left the gold diggers.
“Open the window!”
“Catch him!”
“Gettim! Crumbs! Gettim!”
The window actually did open. With a yell of joy William raised it and half-rolled, half-climbed over the sill into the room, followed by the Outlaws, uttering wild war whoops. After one stricken glance at them the rat disappeared down his hole....
But the Outlaws were thrilled by the house. They tramped about the wooden floors in the empty re-echoing rooms—they slid down the dirty balusters—they found a hole in a floor and delightedly tore up all the rotten boards around it—they explored the bedrooms and the cistern loft and the filthy, airless cellars—they met four rats and chased them with deafening shouts.
They were drunk with delight. Their hands and faces were covered with dust and their hair full of cobwebs. Then William and Ginger claimed the upstairs as their castle and Henry and Douglas charged from below and they all rolled downstairs in a mass of arms and legs and cobwebs. Finally they formed a procession and marched from room to room, stamping with all their might on the wooden floors and singing lustily in their strong and inharmonious voices. They had entirely forgotten their former avocation of gold digging.
“I say,” said William at last, hot and dirty and breathless and happy, “it’d be jus’ the place for a meeting place, wun’t it? Better than the ole barn.”
“Yes, but we’d have to be quieter,” said Ginger, “or else people’ll be hearin’ us an’ makin’ a fuss like what they always do.”
“All right!” said William sternly, “you’ve been makin’ more noise than anyone.”
“An’ let’s keep at the back,” said Henry, “or ole Miss Hatherly’ll be seein’ us out of her window an’ comin’ in interferin’.”
William knew Miss Hatherly, whose house overlooked the front of the empty house. He had good cause to know her. Robert was deeply enamoured of Marion, Miss Hatherly’s niece, and Miss Hatherly disapproved of Robert because he had no money and was still at college and rode a very noisy motor cycle and dropped cigarette ash on her carpets and never wiped his boots and frightened her canary. She disapproved of William still more and for reasons too numerous to state.
******
The empty house became the regular meeting place of the Outlaws, and the old barn was deserted. They always entered cautiously by a hole in the garden hedge, first looking up and down the road to be sure that no one saw them. The house served many purposes besides that of meeting place. It was a smugglers’ den, a castle, a desert island, a battlefield, and an Indian Camp.
It was William, of course, who suggested the midnight feast and the idea was received with eager joy by the others. The next night they all got up and dressed when the rest of their households were in bed.
William climbed down the pear tree which grew right up to his bedroom window, Ginger got out of the bathroom window and crawled along the garden wall to the gate, Douglas and Henry got out of the downstairs windows. All were athrill with the spirit of adventure. They would not have been surprised to meet a Red Indian in full war paint, or a smuggler with eye patch and daggers, or a herd of lions and tigers—or even—despite their scorn of fairy tales—a witch with a cat and broomstick walking along the moonlit road. William had brought his pistol and a good supply of caps in case they met any robbers.
“I know it wun’t kill ’em,” he admitted, “but the bang’d make ’em think it was a real one and scare ’em off. It makes a fine bang. Not that I’m frightened of ’em,” he added hastily.
Ginger had brought a stick which he thought would be useful for killing snakes. He had a vague idea that all roads were infested by deadly snakes at night. They entered the house, disturbing several rats who fled at their approach.
They sat around a stubby candle-end thoughtfully provided by Henry. They ate sardines and buns and cheese and jam and cakes and dessicated cocoanut on the dusty floor in the empty room whose paper hung in cobwebby strands from the wall, while rats squeaked indignantly behind the wainscoting, and the moon, pale with surprise, peeped in at the dirty uncurtained window. They munched in happy silence and drank lemonade and liquorice water provided by William.
“Let’s do it to-morrow, too,” said Henry as they rose to depart, and the proposal was eagerly agreed to.
******
Miss Hatherly was a member of the Society for the Encouragement of Higher Thought. The Society for the Encouragement of Higher Thought had exhausted nearly every branch of Higher Thought and had almost been driven to begin again at Sublimity or Relativity. (They didn’t want to because in spite of a meeting about each they were all still doubtful as to what they meant.)
But last week someone had suggested Psychical Revelation, and they had had quite a lively meeting. Miss Sluker had a cousin whose wife thought she had heard a ghost. Miss Sluker, who was conscientious, added that the cousin’s wife had never been quite sure and had admitted that it might have been a mouse. Mrs. Moote had an aunt who had dreamed of her sister and the next day her sister had found a pair of spectacles which she had lost for weeks. But no one else had any psychic experience to record.
“We must have another meeting and all collect data,” said the President brightly.
“What’s ‘data’?” said little Miss Simky to her neighbour in a mystified whisper.
“It’s the French for ghost story,” said the neighbour.
“Oh!” said little Miss Simky, satisfied.
The next meeting was at Miss Hatherly’s house.
The “data” were not very extensive. Miss Euphemia Barney had discovered that her uncle had died on the same day of the month on which he had been born, but after much discussion it was decided that this, though interesting, was not a psychic experience. Miss Whatte spoke next. She said that her uncle’s photograph had fallen from its hook exactly five weeks to the day after his death. They were moving the furniture, she added, and someone had just dropped the piano, but still ... it was certainly data.
“I’m afraid I’ve no personal experience to record,” said little Miss Simky, “but I’ve read some very exciting datas in magazines and such like, but I’m afraid they won’t count.”
Then Miss Hatherly, trembling with eagerness, spoke.
“I have a very important revelation to make,” she said. “I have discovered that Colonel Henks’ old house is haunted.”
There was a breathless silence. The eyes of the members of the Society for the Encouragement of Higher Thought almost fell through their horn-rimmed spectacles on to the floor.
“Haunted!” they screamed in chorus, and little Miss Simky clung to her neighbour in terror.
“Listen!” said Miss Hatherly. “The house is empty, yet I have heard voices and footsteps—the footsteps resembling Colonel Henks’. Last night,”—the round-eyed, round-mouthed circle drew nearer—“last night I heard them most distinctly at midnight, and I firmly believe that Colonel Henks’ spirit is trying to attract my attention. I believe that he has a message for me.”
Little Miss Simky gave a shrill scream and was carried to the dining-room to have hysterics in comfort among the wool mats and antimacassars.
“To-night I shall go there,” said Miss Hatherly, and the seekers after Higher Thought screamed again.
“Don’t, dear,” said Miss Euphemia Barney. “Oh—it sounds so—unsafe—and do you think it’s quite proper?”
“Proper?” said Miss Hatherly indignantly. “Surely there can be no impropriety in a spirit?”
“Er—no, dear—of course, you’re right,” murmured Miss Euphemia Barney, flinching under Miss Hatherly’s eye.
“I shall go to-night,” said Miss Hatherly again with one more scathing glance at Miss Euphemia Barney, “and I shall receive the message. I want you all to meet me here this time to-morrow and I will report my experience.”
The Society for the Encouragement of Higher Thought expostulated, but finally acquiesced.
“What a heroine! How brave! How psychic!” they murmured as they went homewards.
“What a thrilling data it will make,” said little Miss Simky, who had now recovered from her hysterics and was feeling quite cheerful.
******
William was creeping downstairs. It was too windy for him to use his pear tree and he was going out by way of the dining-room window. He was dressed in an overcoat over his pyjamas and he held in his arms ten small apples which were his contribution to the feast and which he had secretly abstracted from the loft during the day. Bang!—rattle—rattle—rattle!—— Three of them escaped his encircling arms and dropped noisily from stair to stair.
“Crumbs!” muttered William aghast.
THE OUTLAWS STARED AT EACH OTHER, AND THEIR HAIR
STOOD ON END. “A GHOST!” WHISPERED HENRY WITH
CHATTERING TEETH.
No one, however, appeared to have heard. The house was still silent and sleeping. William gathered up his three apples and dropped two more in the process—fortunately upon the mat. He looked round anxiously. His arms seemed inadequate for ten apples, but he had promised ten apples for the feast and he must provide them. His pockets were already full of biscuits.
He looked round the moonlit hall. Ah, Robert’s “overflow bag!” It was on one of the chairs. Robert had been staying with a friend and had returned late that night. He had taken his suit case upstairs and flung the small and shabby bag that he called his “overflow bag” down on a chair. It was still there.
Good! It would do to hold the apples. William opened it. There were a few things inside, but William couldn’t stay to take them out. There was plenty of room for the apples anyway. He shoved them in, took up his bag, and made his way to the dining-room window.
******
“SPEAK!” A LOUD AND
VIBRANT VOICE CALLED
SUDDENLY. “SPEAK! GIVE
ME YOUR MESSAGE!”
The midnight feast was in full swing. Henry had forgotten to bring the candles, Douglas was half asleep, Ginger was racked by gnawing internal pains as the result of the feast of the night before, and William was distrait, but otherwise all was well.
Someone had (rather misguidedly) given William a camera the day before and his thoughts were full of it. He had taken six snapshots and was going to develop them to-morrow. He had sold his bow and arrows to a class-mate to buy the necessary chemicals. As he munched the apples and cheesecakes and chocolate cream and pickled onions and currants provided for the feast he was in imagination developing and fixing his snapshots. He’d never done it before. He thought he’d enjoy it. It would be so jolly and messy—watery stuff to slosh about in little basins and that kind of thing.
Suddenly, as they munched and lazily discussed the rival merits of catapults and bows and arrows (Ginger had just swopped his bow and arrows for a catapult), there came through the silent empty house the sound of the opening of the front door. The Outlaws stared at each other with crumby mouths wide open—steps were now ascending the front stairs.
“Speak!” called suddenly a loud and vibrant voice from the middle of the stairs, which made the Outlaws start almost out of their skins. “Speak! Give me your message.”
The hair of the Outlaws stood on end.
“A ghost!” whispered Henry with chattering teeth.
“Criky!” said William, “let’s get out.”
They crept silently out of the further door, down the back stairs, out of the window, and fled with all their might down the road.
Meanwhile, upstairs, Miss Hatherly first walked majestically into the closed door and then fell over Robert’s “overflow bag,” which the Outlaws had forgotten in their panic.
******
Robert went to see his beloved the next day and to reassure her of his undying affection. She yawned several times in the course of his speech. She was beginning to find Robert’s devotion somewhat monotonous. She was not of a constant nature. Neither was Robert.
“I say,” she said interrupting him as he was telling her for the tenth time that he had thought of her every minute of the day, and dreamed of her every minute of the night, and that he’d made up a lot more poetry about her but had forgotten to bring it, “do come indoors. They’re having some sort of stunt in the drawing-room—Aunt and the High Thinkers, you know. I’m not quite sure what it is—something psychic, she said, but anyway it ought to be amusing.”
Rather reluctantly Robert followed her into the drawing-room where the Higher Thinkers were assembled. The Higher Thinkers looked coldly at Robert. He wasn’t much thought of in high-thinking circles.
There was an air of intense excitement in the room as Miss Hatherly rose to speak.
“I entered the haunted house,” she began in a low, quivering voice, “and at once I heard—VOICES!” Miss Simky clung in panic to Miss Sluker. “I proceeded up the stairs and I heard—FOOTSTEPS!” Miss Euphemia Barney gave a little scream. “I went on undaunted.” The Higher Thinkers gave a thrilled murmur of admiration. “And suddenly all was silent, but I felt a—PRESENCE! It led me—led me along a passage—I FELT it! It led me to a room——” Miss Simky screamed again. “And in the room I found THIS!”
With a dramatic gesture she brought out Robert’s “overflow bag.” “I have not yet investigated it. I wished to do so first in your presence.” (“How Noble!” murmured Mrs. Moote.) “I feel sure that this is what Colonel Henks has been trying to show me. I am convinced that this will throw light upon the mystery of his death—I am now going to open it.”
“If it’s human remains,” quavered Miss Simky, “I shall faint.”
With a determined look, Miss Hatherly opened the bag. From it she brought out first a pair of faded and very much darned blue socks, next a shirt with a large hole in it, next a bathing suit, and lastly a pair of very grimy white flannel trousers.
The Higher Thinkers looked bewildered. But Miss Hatherly was not daunted.
“They’re clues!” she said, “clues—if only we can piece them together properly; they must have some meaning. Ah, here’s a note-book—this will explain everything.”
She opened the note-book and began to read:
“Oh, Marion, my lady fair,
Has eyes of blue and golden hair.
Her heart of gold is kind and true,
She is the sweetest girl you ever knew.
But oh, a dragon guards this jewel
A hideous dragon, foul and cruel,
The ugliest old thing you ever did see,
Is Marion’s aunt Miss Hatherly.”
“These socks are both marked ‘Robert Brown’,” suddenly squealed Miss Sluker, who had been examining the “clues.”
Miss Hatherly gave a scream of rage and turned to the corner where Robert had been.
But Robert had vanished.
When Robert saw his “overflow bag” he had turned red.
When he saw his socks he had turned purple.
When he saw his shirt he had turned green.
When he saw his trousers he had turned white.
When he saw his note-book he had turned yellow.
When Miss Hatherly began to read he muttered something about feeling faint and crept unostentatiously out of the window. Marion followed him.
“Well,” she said sternly, “you’ve made a nice mess of everything, haven’t you? What on earth have you been doing?”
“I can’t think what you thought of those socks,” said Robert hoarsely, “all darned in different coloured wool—I never wear them. I don’t know why they were in the bag.”
“I didn’t think anything at all about them,” she snapped.
They were walking down the road towards Robert’s house.
“And the shirt,” he went on in a hollow voice, “with that big hole in it. I don’t know what you’ll think of my things. I just happened to have torn the shirt. I really never wear things like that.”
“Oh, do shut up about your things. I don’t care what you wear. But I’m sick with you for writing soppy poetry about me for those asses to read,” she said fiercely. “And why did you give her your bag, you loony?”
“I didn’t, Marion,” said Robert miserably. “Honestly I didn’t. It’s a mystery to me how she got it. I’ve been hunting for it high and low all to-day. It’s simply a mystery!”
“Oh, do stop saying that. What are you going to do about it? That’s the point.”
“I’m going to commit suicide,” said Robert gloomily. “I feel there’s nothing left to live for now you’re turning against me.”
“I don’t believe you could,” said Marion aggressively. “How are you going to do it?”
“I shall drink poison.”
“What poison? I don’t believe you know what are poisons. What poison?”
“Er—prussic acid,” said Robert.
“You couldn’t get it. They wouldn’t sell it to you.”
“People do get poisons,” Robert said indignantly. “I’m always reading of people taking poisons.”
“Well, they’ve got to have more sense than you,” said Marion crushingly. “They’re not the sort of people that leave their bags and soppy poems all over the place for other people to find.”
They had reached Robert’s house and were standing just beneath William’s window.
“I know heaps of poisons,” said Robert with dignity. “I’m not going to tell you what I’m going to take. I’m going to——”
At that moment William, who had been (not very successfully) fixing his snapshots and was beginning to “clear up,” threw the contents of his fixing bath out of the window with a careless flourish. They fell upon Robert and Marion. For a minute they were both speechless with surprise and solution of sodium hyposulphate. Then Marion said furiously:
“You brute! I hate you!”
“Oh, I say,” gasped Robert. “It’s not my fault, Marion. I don’t know what it is. Honestly I didn’t do it——”
Some of the solution had found its way into Robert’s mouth and he was trying to eject it as politely as possible.
“It came from your beastly house,” said Marion angrily. “And it’s ruined my hat and I hate you and I’ll never speak to you again.”
She turned on her heel and walked off, mopping the back of her neck with a handkerchief as she went.
Robert stared at her unrelenting back till she was out of sight, then went indoors. Ruined her hat indeed? What was a hat, anyway? It had ruined his suit—simply ruined it. And how had the old cat got his bag he’d like to know. He wouldn’t mind betting a quid that that little wretch William had had something to do with it. He always had.
He decided not to commit suicide after all. He decided to live for years and years and years to make the little wretch’s life a misery to him—if he could!