Arden did manage, when her horse settled down a bit and danced along beside Dick’s for a stretch, to ask him what had gotten into their usually well behaved mounts.
“They’re frightened at something,” he answered. “They were scared stiff when we came out.”
“So were we all,” Arden admitted. “Do you suppose the horses could feel our fright?”
“Some people claim that a horse feels his rider’s every mood,” Dick answered. “I really don’t know. But I surely believe these horses sensed something, perhaps more than we did. But——” Then Dick’s shining black mare broke into a sudden trot, and he could not finish what he started to say.
But Arden was persistent. She urged her steed forward and was again riding beside the groom while Terry and Sim pranced on ahead.
“Do you believe in ghosts, Dick?”
He hesitated a moment and then slowly answered: “I believe that people often see just what they expect to see in haunted houses, so called, and hear just what they want to hear.”
Arden was plainly disappointed at this matter-of-factness on Dick’s part. She had hoped for something more concrete than this. But remembering Dick’s, or, rather, his grandmother’s, connection with Sycamore Hall, she did not press her point.
“Let’s catch up to the others,” she proposed, and Dick assenting, they were soon close behind Terry and Sim, who were still talking soothingly to their mounts to quiet the restless animals. After a ride of several miles through woodland they reached a straight open stretch of road and broke into a smart canter. The girls were a little breathless when they dismounted at the stables.
“Do you young ladies want to make another date for the end of the week?” asked Titus Ellery, owner of the riding academy, as he came forward on much-bowed legs. He was not an attractive man, but he knew horses. Rather stingy and grasping was his reputation. “How about it?” He was respectful enough but persistent.
Sim spoke up.
“Not just now. We’ll phone.” Telling Dick to “charge it,” she and the girls walked toward the waiting roadster.
Dick opened the door.
“Don’t let this adventure scare you,” he said in a low voice. “It was probably nothing but those excited men imagining something.” He seemed worried lest they cancel further riding engagements during the holidays, and Dick probably made a little commission.
“Don’t worry,” Terry answered. “We loved it! See you later; and thanks, Dick!”
They were off, Sim driving with a little less than her usual abandon. Arden was the first to notice it.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Scared?”
“No, just thinking.”
“It was queer,” murmured Terry. “I was really frightened.”
“The men were, anyhow,” said Arden. “And when we heard those bumping sounds coming out of an old uninhabited house——” She shivered a little.
“Probably falling plaster!” laughed Sim.
“I’m not so sure of that,” said Arden.
“She’s thinking of what happened in the orchard,” remarked Terry.
“Well, something happened there all right,” Arden responded.
“Let’s forget it a while,” proposed Sim, and she stepped on the gas in her usual manner.
Home again, they were greeted at the door by the smiling Moselle who answered their ring.
“You-all have a nice ride?” she asked cheerfully.
“Grand,” answered Terry. “And we met up with some very fine ghosts, Moselle.”
“Ghosts?” Moselle’s eyes were wide.
“Over by Sycamore Hall,” Terry continued.
“Um—uumm!” Moselle shook her head. “I don’t know what your mother will say, Miss Sim. Chasing after ghosts. You-all ought to keep away from that place. I know it’s dangerous. Plumb full of ha’nts, that what it is.”
“Why, Moselle! Do you know anything about it?” Sim asked, surprised.
“Yes’m, Miss Sim, I sure does! Only las’ night Brutus Jackson tole me he was going to work there ’cause he needed a little change, and ain’t half hour ago he came dashing into my kitchen with Sam Brown and tell me they done quit.”
“He did—why?” Arden frantically signaled Sim to let her continue the questioning of Moselle.
“Why, he say,” went on the colored woman, “a funny old soldier with a bloody bandage around his haid come clumping down the stairs and stood pointing for Sam and him to get out the door and, yes, ma’am, he say they sure did git!” Moselle made unbelieving noises.
Terry turned to Sim. “Gosh, I’m sorry we didn’t stay. What’d you run for, Sim?”
Sim started to reply, but seeing Moselle listening intently said casually, “Oh, I just felt like it.” Then, addressing the curious cook, she asked: “How about lunch, Moselle?”
“Yes’m, Miss Sim, in just a few minutes. You-all got time to change if you like,” she said, quick to realize she was being dismissed.
“Good! Come on then, kids, let’s go up;” and before Arden or Terry could ask any more questions Sim, taking them by the elbows, steered them up the stairs.
By unspoken consent they gathered in Sim’s room.
“Gee, Arden, I was afraid Moselle would get all worked up, and then you know what she’d do? Write to Mother and Dad and get them all excited. She doesn’t miss a thing. And she’s very superstitious.”
“I forgot about her,” Terry admitted pulling a turtle-necked sweater over her head. “Wounded soldier! I guess that’s what we heard. Certainly sounded like footsteps to me. Don’t you love it? What did Dick say, Arden?”
“Not much,” Arden answered. “We were too busy with the horses. Did you notice how scared they were?”
“Say,” interrupted Sim happily, “won’t Dot love this! Bet she won’t want to sit around and play contract now.”
“Oh, contract—who wants to do that? There’s something queer about that place, and I’m going to find out what it is before I have to go back to school,” announced Arden emphatically.
“We’re with you, Arden! You can’t leave us out of any such excitement as that,” Terry decided. “Can she, Sim?”
“I should say not!” Sim said, and striking a dramatic pose sang out: “All for one, one for all! Arden, Terry, and Sim!”
“And Dorothy,” supplemented Arden. “She’ll be here tomorrow. Let’s take her out to see the house in the afternoon.”
“Yes,” agreed Sim. “That will be fun, and maybe we’ll see the soldier.”
At this point in their plans the dulcet tones of the luncheon bell could be heard coming from below, and Terry was obliged to slip her sweater on again. In the end they all ate in riding clothes and talked of subjects far from their minds lest Althea, who was serving, should carry ghost stories back to her mother in the kitchen.
The lamb chops were done to a turn, and the peas were startling in their lovely greenness. The pie, lemon meringue, was a fluffy dainty that disappeared with remarkable quickness when put before the girls.
Everything in its place was their motto; ghosts belonged to Jockey Hollow, and food came under Moselle’s supervision. After a half year of college fare, food was, after all, important.
Arden Blake, Terry Landry, and Sim Westover had been schoolmates and chums ever since they started in Vincent Prep. They were graduated at the same time and went to Cedar Ridge College for their freshman year together. The first term of the college had just ended and they were home for the Christmas holidays.
As told in the first volume of this Arden Blake mystery series, entitled The Orchard Secret, almost as soon as the three freshmen signed in at Cedar Ridge things began happening. There was something strange about the college orchard, where so many gnarled, weird, black trees stretched up their waving branches in the night. And when Arden saw the poster of the missing and rich Henry Pangborn, there was another complication.
But Arden and her two chums solved the puzzle, much to the benefit of the college swimming pool, which had had to be abandoned because there was no money to repair it. And thus Sim remained at college, for she was determined to become an expert swimmer and diver, and when she had found the swimming pool was so sadly out of commission, she had threatened to leave. But Arden’s success in solving the mystery had made everything all right.
When the three girls had finished lunch in Sim’s beautiful home on the outskirts of Pentville, a few miles from Jockey Hollow, Arden went to the library across the hall and began to scan the shelves impatiently.
“Know anything about these books, Sim?” she asked.
“Yes, of course I do. What do you want to know?”
“I want to find out something about our Revolution. Perhaps we can get a volume that will tell who really lived in Sycamore Hall in Jockey Hollow.”
“That’s a great idea, Arden! At times you seem almost brilliant,” laughed Sim.
“Well, suppose you help me to shine a bit,” Arden proposed.
“Let me help,” begged Terry.
They delved among the books but though they found some American history lore and much about the Revolution, there was nothing on Jockey Hollow or Sycamore Hall.
“I’ll have to try somewhere else,” Arden sighed.
The girls spent most of the afternoon talking over their strange adventure, at times hardly believing it had happened, again with a little thrill of fear mingled with doubt as to what it all meant.
“Well, I’m going to find out something,” finally announced Arden the impetuous.
“How?” drawled Sim.
“I’m going to the library. They ought to have something there about Jockey Hollow. Goodness knows it was important enough!”
“Tell us when you come back,” begged Terry.
“Don’t you want to come with me?”
“No. I’m for a nap. Riding always makes me drowsy.”
“I’m with you, Terry,” announced Sim. “Come on.”
She led the way upstairs, where she and Terry changed from riding clothes to lounging pajamas. But Arden donned a polo coat and low-heeled shoes and started out.
“Don’t you want my car?” sleepily called Sim, lolling on her bed.
“No, I’m going to walk, thank you.”
She was on her way, though she scarcely realized it, to the beginning of another strange mystery.
Arden felt sure there must be some historical books in the town library that would throw light on the legends of Jockey Hollow. By studying these legends, Arden decided, she might strike a clue to the traditions that had built up the Sycamore Hall ghost stories.
Hurrying to the library, determined to get at that angle without delay, she was disappointed when she saw a girl standing at the entrance and shaking the heavy door handle to make sure it was locked.
“That must be Dick’s sister, Betty,” she decided. “He said she worked in the library. But why is she closing it so early?”
Reaching the door, Arden asked about the early closing. The girl, pretty and friendly, explained that lack of funds and the holiday season made it more practical to close early. She was Betty Howe, she admitted, smiling at Arden’s question. And she said her brother Dick had mentioned the girls from the Westover house having gone riding with him.
“I’m sorry, but all the lights are out now,” the girl continued. “We open at nine in the morning, you know,” she smiled, putting away her keys and pulling on her gloves.
“Oh, thank you. Then I’ll come back in the morning.”
“Yes, do. I hope it was nothing important?”
“No, indeed,” Arden answered smiling. “Tomorrow will do nicely.”
But as she hurried along to Sim’s she did feel disappointed.
“Did you find out anything?” Sim promptly asked, while Arden sank down rather wearily.
“No. The library was closed. But I had a nice walk,” Arden tried to persuade herself as well as Sim.
“Well, let’s forget the ghosts,” suggested Terry. “It’s been a long day, and tomorrow we’ll have Dot with us.”
“And so, to bed!” yawned Sim, and those who didn’t yawn certainly felt like it.
Their night was undisturbed by “witches, warlocks or lang-nebbied things,” in spite of what had happened, or was thought to have happened, at the Hall. Not even a bad dream threw its shadow on the healthy girls sleeping serenely at Sim’s.
Perhaps that grand feeling of being able to lie abed as long as they wished was too much for them; at any rate, when Terry breezily wished Moselle a cheery good-morning, the maid made no attempt at hiding her surprise.
“’Mornin’, Miss Terry. You-all sleep well?” she inquired.
“’Morning, Moselle,” Terry replied. “Yes, thank you. And now I’m ready for a big breakfast.”
Moselle grinned her delight. She loved to cook, and nothing pleases a cook more than knowing her art is appreciated.
Arden and Sim were not long behind Terry, and the girls made a pretty picture in their gay dresses against the background of dark paneled walls in the dining room.
It was Arden’s day to do the marketing, but because they were to drive to the station and meet Dorothy Keene, shortly after breakfast, they agreed, “just for this once,” to leave the planning of the day’s meals to Moselle. They were still determined to run the house efficiently and well, on a smaller budget than Sim’s mother had allowed; furthermore, Terry and Arden agreed not to telephone home for advice. Of course, the routine of cleaning and washing went on as before: the girls could not improve on that. So Moselle was instructed to call up the stores and have something very special for the coming guest, whose mother was “in the movies,” which fact thrilled Moselle to the cockles of her heart.
When the train pulled into the suburban station, the three girls, with the car parked as close as possible to the platform, had no trouble in finding Dorothy. Although Terry, perched on the car top, which was folded down, had thought she could see better from that vantage point and locate her chum more quickly, Dorothy, it developed, was the only passenger who alighted at Pentville. So they saw her at once. She was wearing a smart fur coat cut on swagger lines and a ridiculously small hat pulled over one eye. She waved a greeting.
“Hello, Dot!” Sim ran to meet her. “Awfully glad you could come.” They hugged affectionately. “We’re having specially nice weather just for you.”
“Sim dear,” the girl replied, “and Terry and Arden, it’s great to see you. I’ve been in a penthouse in New York with a lot of stage-struck people, and I feel a bit struck myself,” she laughed. “This lovely country and you kids are just what I need,” declared the visitor.
They walked toward the car, each trying to show her own particular brand of pleasure at Dot’s arrival.
“And we need you, too,” Arden put in with a little tug at Dot’s arm. “Don’t we, girls?”
“Now, look here!” and Dot pulled them all to a sudden halt. “You are up to something, I’m sure. What is it? Any new mysteries thrusting themselves upon you?”
“Dot, my child,” Arden answered, “you are positively psychic! That’s exactly what we’re bursting to tell you!”
“Ghosts! Nice hundred-year-old ones! All hoary and bloody, with pointing fingers!” Terry supplied.
“And a poor old lady and two orphan grandchildren,” grunted Sim, as she tried to turn the wheel of the car. All four were in the front seat, a feat accomplished by Sim, Arden, and Terry squeezing into a row and Dot sitting on Terry’s lap. That Dot’s head was much higher than the windshield and unsheltered from the wind bothered them not at all. With so much to say, they simply couldn’t split up the group by using the rumble seat. Dot’s grips were there, anyway, and for the two weeks of her visit she would be well supplied with clothes—at least, judging by the size of the bags.
“Go on, my dear Watsons,” chuckled Dot laughing. “Isn’t there a nice-looking young man any place in this mystery?”
“Of course there is,” replied Terry, “and a girl, too.”
“But the house, Dot—it’s perfect! We heard the ghostly footsteps ourselves, and in broad daylight, too!” Sim surprisingly stated.
Dorothy shook her head. “You’re all sleeping idiots! Well, I won’t arouse you. I suppose country people must have some amusement.”
“Country people!” Three voices sang out together. It never failed. A suggestion that they in Pentville were not as metropolitan as their New York chum was always a disputed point.
“A ghost couldn’t live in New York,” Arden said sarcastically. “You have to get out where there is some room for ghosts. Like Pentville or Jockey Hollow.”
“Don’t you believe us, Dot?” Terry asked. Dot just smiled.
“We’ll show you. What do you say, girls—shall we go over to Jockey Hollow before we go home? The bags will be safe. Our ghost isn’t a thief.” Sim slowed down at the junction where one road led to the Hollow, which they would pass as they went to Sim’s house, though at some distance.
“Yes! Let’s go, Sim. If you’re not afraid of the car on those roads,” Terry said, plainly anxious to go back to Sycamore Hall.
Sim needed no urging, and going into second she turned the wheel and very carefully started down the narrow dirt road. On the brow of the hill she stopped and pointed out the faded stone walls of the house which could clearly be seen through the bare trees.
“That’s it, unbeliever,” Sim told her guest. “We’ll take you inside, if we can get in, and show you things your eyes have never before beheld.”
“Lead on MacDuff,” Dorothy laughed. “Whom have you hired to jump out on me and cry ‘Boo’?”
“Word of honor, Dot,” Arden insisted, “it isn’t a joke. You’ll see! Go on, Sim,” she prompted.
Bouncing and rolling from side to side, the little roadster neared the house. The old lane that once approached prosperous farm lands, but was now overgrown and stony, led almost to the door. But knowing she must turn around again to go home, Sim stopped so they could back out.
Shutting off the motor, she turned to her friends.
“I hope he shows up,” Sim whispered to Arden and Terry.
“Who?” asked Dot.
“The old soldier with a wounded head, all bandaged in bloody rags. He wears very heavy boots and was hidden and sheltered from the British in this old house during the Revolution,” Terry guessed facetiously.
“But how did you find out all this?” Dot was plainly interested but also a little incredulous.
“We were riding here in Jockey Hollow yesterday,” Sim explained, “when our horses were frightened, and we were, also, by some Negro workmen rushing out of the place, crying, ‘Ghost!’ Oh, it was startling!” and she related, in her most convincing way the details of their strange adventure.
“Oh!” said Dorothy after a little pause. “Oh!” That was all.
The four sat in the car, no one speaking for a while. Their own imaginings had gotten the best of them, evidently, though no one would admit it.
Then, suddenly, the quiet and peace surrounding the old Hall was broken, by the loud squeaking of ancient nails being pulled from hundred-year-old wood, and the shrill sounds were like the shrieks of frightened women. It startled the girls into activity.
“The workmen are back!” Arden said disappointedly. “I guess the ghost won’t dare come out.”
“Too bad, girls. You almost had me believing you. But let’s go in and look around, anyway. I like old houses, with or without ghosts.” Dot was still skeptical.
So they climbed out of the car and picked their way over the tangled vines and low bushes to the door: a dignified, paneled old piece decorated with a handsomely discolored brass knocker.
Dorothy, in a spirit of bravado, lifted the knocker up and rapped it down smartly. They waited a second and, still defiant, Dorothy put her hand on the bronze knob to open the door.
No one knew just how it happened. Dorothy said she had not yet tried to open the door when it swung back of its own motion, and instantly the dim old hallway stretched before them. At that the reassuring sound of hammering suddenly stopped and, gathering courage, the girls were about to enter when a shout—half scream, half moan—echoed through the old mansion.
The girls stood transfixed with terror, almost breathless. Another cry quickly followed, and then the sound of loud, hurrying footsteps could be heard. There was a rush of bodies, and three men in working clothes, powdered white with plaster dust, literally jumped down the last few steps of the great staircase and continued their maddened race out of the big front door, brushing by the astonished girls without a word.
“There!” cried Sim triumphantly. “Something’s happening now!”
“I should say so!” gasped Terry, looking at Dot, whose eyes showed wonder and who seemed too surprised to speak.
“Hey! Wait!” Arden shouted, and she turned to pursue the last of the three frightened men still wildly running away. “Wait! Tell us what’s the matter!”
The workman, beating his hands on his trousers to knock out some of the dust, barely hesitated.
“Lady, I can’t wait!” he exclaimed. “We saw the dead body of an old woman stretched out on a bed. We saw her in a room below where we were working—saw her through a hole I tore in the floor and that went into the ceiling of her room. We saw her plain! I’m finished on this job!” He had to wait to say all that, but then turned and ran on.
“Oh, please!” begged Arden. “Just where did you see her? Tell us! Is she really dead?”
“I didn’t go near her,” he said breathlessly. “I don’t want to get mixed up in no murder case. But she sure looked dead to me—lying flat on her back—in a red dress—or something—and pale—pale as——” He looked toward his retreating companions, now some distance down the road, and then, with a frightened glance up at the old Hall, he turned again and ran away.
“Well, what do you think of this?” demanded Sim. “Shall we go in?” She turned to Dorothy as though asking her permission.
“I—er—why, of course!” the visitor decided, perhaps a bit hesitantly. “If there’s anything wrong we ought to notify the police. Yes, we must do that.”
It was a bold decision. It rather pleased Arden and her chums.
Still, no one wanted to be the first to enter, and they stood on the step, frightened but intensely curious.
Arden gave Terry a little push, hinting that she should lead, but Terry sidestepped. Sim sneaked around the others until she was on the edge of the step, nearer the car.
“Do you think it could be so terrible?” she questioned.
“We ought to find out. Besides, if it’s someone dead—” Dorothy stopped—“it couldn’t hurt us anyway.”
She started cautiously just a few steps, but at least they had begun to move. The other three, in close formation, followed. At the foot of the stairs they stopped; listened. There was not a sound. The daylight filtering in through a stained-glass window at the first landing cast eerie shadows and even made the girls’ faces take on a sickish pale color.
Dorothy put her hand on the worn old stair rail and slid it up ahead of her as though to pull herself after it. A deep indentation checked the sliding hand and acted like a brake.
Then Terry, growing a little braver, deliberately went up a few steps, and in this fashion, by starting and stopping every second or two, and listening, cautiously they reached the first landing.
There they halted. But only for a second, for something drew them on; some power they could not resist urged them up almost against all reason, until they were on the second floor of the weird old house.
There the hall ran the length of the house. All furnishing was gone from the hall except an old dusty chest that stood in a dark, dingy corner.
Rooms were on either side of the passage, but the doors were all closed except one. Somehow Dorothy felt this was The Room. But to look in would be another matter. What was in there? Nothing at all or——?
They must find out. The old adage, “safety in numbers,” came back to Dorothy. She motioned to the other frightened girls. They crept forward on tiptoe.
Now in line with the opened doorway, Dorothy forced herself to look in. She saw a large square room with shuttered windows through which the morning light barely seeped in splintered blades. There was the bed.
The bed! That dreadful possibility!
How could she look? No longer brave, she shut her eyes. Her buzzing head seemed not to belong to her. But the next moment, of its own accord, it turned again to that dreadful resting place. A deep sigh, a gasp, from one of the girls behind Dorothy startled her further, and she could delay no longer. She opened her eyes.
The bed was empty!
A four-poster that must once have boasted a canopied top, the huge old bed stood stark and sinister. A dark bedraggled cloth covered the mattress, but happily—and how glad they were—nothing else was there.
“Whew!” Terry ran a trembling hand across her forehead. “I feel as if I had just gone through a clothes wringer.”
“Such suspense! I lived a hundred years coming up those stairs,” declared Sim. “Is my face white?”
Arden did not feel like joking. She went closer to the bed.
“Absolutely empty! Those men must have very vivid imaginations,” she declared with a little laugh. “Seeing things, that way.”
“This time three men saw the same thing, or claim they did. The other time it was two who saw and who also claimed they heard the thudding of the soldier’s boots. Some complications even for ghosts,” Sim remarked.
“It’s very queer. The spirits of the departed owners of the Hall must be rising in protest against the invasion of the wreckers,” Terry suggested, not too merrily.
“Are you sure, my dear friends, you had nothing to do with this?” Dorothy asked, once more skeptical.
That question brought a storm of protest.
“Dorothy!” exclaimed Arden, “do you really think we could have scared away those workmen?”
“Well, if you feel that way, Dot,” began Terry. But she didn’t; she told them so. And once more it was a united party that looked for further evidence of ghosts, real or imaginary.
The inevitable fireplace was built in the wall not far from the suspected bed. An old squat rocker stood lonely and forlorn in the center, and a packing box had gathered dust under a window—that was all. The floor was also dusty, but Dorothy stooped down and, with royal disregard, swept a spot clean with a dainty lace-trimmed handkerchief.
“Look at the floor, girls,” she said. “See how wide the boards are and the pegs to hold them down. They don’t make floors that way any more. All these boards were cut and planed and the pegs made and fitted in by hand.”
“I wish I knew more about such things,” Terry remarked, inspecting the floor. “All I know is that this must have been a fine old house, and I wish it wasn’t going to be torn down.”
“It reminds me of an impending execution.” Sim sighed. “It did its duty, and now it has to give up its life for its country.” That trite remark brought on a giggle, but Sim didn’t mind.
Arden and Dorothy were snooping about, looking through the cracks in the shutters, and even peered under the bed.
“If they succeed in demolishing the Hall, I’m going to try and buy the picture of that girl downstairs,” announced Terry. “She fascinates me! I’d like to find out more about her.”
“Probably Dick’s grandmother could tell you. We must look her up,” said Arden, dusting her hands. “Who’s that?” she asked suddenly as voices in dispute were heard from somewhere.
“Someone downstairs,” Dorothy answered. They listened. One voice, a man’s, seemed just very ordinary, not the least bit ghost-like.
“Let’s go down and see what’s happening,” Terry suggested. “We’re not afraid of workmen.”
They all trooped down in much different spirits than they had come up in. Now, like weather vanes turning in the wind, their interest was veering to the commotion below.
In the hallway stood the three workmen who had so recently rushed out of the old mansion. There was another, an older man, obviously their employer, with them now.
“Are you men telling me that you’re quitting, too?” asked the boss sharply.
“Yes, sir,” the leader of the three stated emphatically. “I don’t like this place. I’d rather chop down trees all winter than go up on the top floor for a day and start tearing this place down.”
“But, man, you’re wrong! There’s nothing there. You told me this same story last week, and when I looked in, the room was empty,” the wrecking contractor declared.
The girls were on the landing above, and he turned to them, seemingly surly and surprised.
“That your car outside? What are you doing in here?” he asked bruskly.
“Yes,” answered Sim. “We heard someone shout as we were going past and stopped to see—if we could help.”
“Well—what did you find?” the contractor asked, apparently hoping that the statement of disinterested young ladies would impress the frightened men favorably.
“Nothing,” Arden admitted. “The room was empty when we looked in. Although he said,” Arden indicated the man she had questioned, “that there was an old lady up there, dead on the bed.”
“Yeah—he said,” the contractor shrugged. “I know! He had the same story last week. All right,” he continued, now addressing the men, “go to the office and get your pay. You’re finished! But this house comes down if I have to pull it down myself!”
The laborers turned away and, talking among themselves, gathered up their lunch boxes and coats and hurriedly walked away.
“You girls want to be careful in here,” the contractor warned. “Not that I worry about ghosts, but you might get hurt if something fell on you. They were working on the roof today. This is the second time men have laid down on this job. But I’ll have this place leveled to the ground if I have to get my own family to help me.” He looked angrily at the ceiling above him and then, taking a big black cigar from his pocket, he bit the end savagely. Glancing about once more he finally strode after the men, leaving the little group of wondering girls to puzzle it out.