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The Grammar School Boys Snowbound or, Dick & Co. at Winter Sports, a novel by H. Irving Hancock |
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Chapter 14. The Mysterious Voices Of The Night |
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_ CHAPTER XIV. THE MYSTERIOUS VOICES OF THE NIGHT "Wow! Wow-ow-ow-oo-whoo-oo-oo!" It would be impossible to convey the weird sound in words. Six boys and a whiner were asleep in their bunks in the log cabin when that awesome sound first smote the air. Outside the wind had nearly died down. Dick Prescott, the first to waken, felt a cold chill creep down his spine. "Wow-ow-ow-ow-ow! Whoo-oo-oo-oo-oo!" "Wh-wh-what is it?" gasped Dan Dalzell, sitting up in his bunk. "I don't know," Dick admitted. Again came the fearsome sound, now louder than ever. Dave Darrin and Tom Reade were now awake and startled. "What on earth can it be?" demanded Tom. "It must be Fred Ripley's ghost party," suggested Greg. "Bosh! Fred Ripley would have to be a real ghost before he could get over the deep snow in the woods," Dick retorted. Once more came the sound, more piercing than ever. Dick leaped from his bunk and began to dress. Dave and Greg followed suit. "We'll do our best to find out what it is, fellows," Dick promised them. Hen Dutcher was chattering and half sobbing. "If I--I ever g-g-get out of this alive," he chattered, "I'll never stick around y-y-y-you fellows again. I was a f-f-f-fool to let you fellows coax me into staying here." "Get out, then!" retorted Tom Reade half savagely, as he landed on the floor and began to dress. All were soon up except Hen, who, when a more dismal and bloodcurdling wail than ever came along, hid his head under one of the overcoats that covered him. "It's a wild cat--that's what it is," declared Greg Holmes. "Only one objection to that idea," returned Dick Prescott. "No one has ever heard of a wild cat in these parts in forty years." "Then it's some one out perishing in the cold," suggested Dave. "Whoever might be out in the cold wouldn't have much time to yell like that about it," argued Dick. "A wayfarer, out in the cold and deep snow to-night, would soon lie down and freeze to death." But now something happened that made the blood of all the listeners run cold. "Dea-ath sta-a-alks through the for-r-r-rest!" came the wailing chant. "That must be the Ripley gang," contended Dick. "But how can it be? How could they get through the deep snow that won't bear 'em?" Tom wanted to know. "Then what can it be?" "Mr. Fits," suggested Harry Hazelton. "But Fits isn't in the shack, or wasn't," Dave argued. "We haven't seen him around, outdoors or in the shack, since the night we ordered him to go there. If Mr. Fits got away from this neighborhood it was simply impossible for him to get back since then." "A-a-a-all who he-ear my voi-oi-oice shall die-ie within the hou-ou-our!" came the wail once more. "O-o-o-h! Please don't!" screamed Hen Dutcher, burrowing in under the massed overcoats. "Please spare me! I'll be a good fellow after this!" "Keep quiet!" ordered Tom, striding over to the bunk and giving Hen three or four vigorous prods. "If you don't we'll throw you outside!" "But it's just aw-aw-aw-awful!" chattered the terrified Hen. Truth to tell, none of the boys were feeling at his best, just then. Dick's glance passed the face of the clock, showing the hour to be just midnight. Had it been possible to travel through the forest, the Grammar School boys would have felt sure that it was Fred Ripley's crew. Then they would have gone forth to see what was up. But feeling sure that they were the only living beings in this part of the forest, it was impossible to account for the awful sounds that came from without. What made the wailing sound still more frightful was the fact that it all seemed a part of the wind that was now rising gradually. And the clearly uttered, sepulchral words made it all real enough. The wind never talks in words. Again came the wailing, though this time without words. "I never believed there were such things as real ghosts," declared Harry Hazelton. "Then you're a fool. Everybody knows that there are ghosts--and they're fine people that do noble work!" proclaimed chattering Hen from under the weight of clothing. He was trying to win the favor of the ghosts. "If there are any ghosts around here I wish one of 'em would pick you up in a sheet, take you away and drop you in your own home in Gridley," declared Tom, becoming decidedly irritated by this babyish imitation of a boy. "Oh, please don't say that!" begged Hen piteously. "The ghost might hear you." "If he does, and takes Tom's advice," hinted Dave, "we'll soon see it happen." That was enough to send thirteen year old Hen burrowing more frantically than before. The cabin was warm and bright inside. Dick, while trying to puzzle out the matter to his satisfaction, carried four more logs to the fire, one after another, and placed them. Not one of the Grammar School boys had any desire to go to bed at that time, save Hen, who wouldn't dare to be anywhere else. In fact, the Dutcher youngster may have wondered whether he could stand on his feet if he slipped out and into his clothes. One by one the boys found seats. Dan picked up the air rifle and sat with it across his lap. "Whoever it is that's doing this trick has surely got us going," laughed Dick uneasily. "He has," affirmed Dave. "I don't believe in ghosts, but, under the circumstances, this thing that's annoying us is more than some creepy. If we could explain it I don't believe we'd let it worry us any. But I suppose human beings are always most afraid of what they cannot understand." The wailings came at less frequent intervals now, though they continued to be sufficiently awesome. But when the clock showed two minutes before the hour of one in the morning these words came in a blast: "The hou-ou-our of de-eath is at hand. The Gr-r-rim Rea-eaper is at the doo-oor!" "Then please, please, please--GO AWAY!" screamed Hen, his teeth clacking a bone solo. _ |
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