The Galloping Ghost | Page 2

This boat
swings about."
"Boat." It's strange how a single word tells a long story. The whiff of
cold air had told him that they had flown north. Now he knew that they
had landed on water. But what water? And where? "There you are." A
hand in the moonlight guided him to a seat in the stern of a small boat.
Red opened his eyes wide at the scene that lay before him, a broad,
deep bay fringed by a black ribbon of spruce and balsam. The
moonlight, forming a path of gold across the water, fell upon some dark
object. As the oars of the boat creaked, the dark object made a
splashing sound; it moved.
As if reading the boy's thoughts, the oarsman ceased his labors to cast
the circle of a powerful flashlight in the direction of the moving
creature.
With a quick intake of breath Red stared enchanted; for there, not

twenty yards away, standing at the end of the small island which he had
reached at this moment was a moose.
Nowhere in all his life had the boy beheld such complete majesty. Erect,
silent, powerful, the monarch of the forest stood there defiant and
unafraid.
"Where in all the earth could one find a spot such as this?" Red
breathed to himself "A spot so sheltered that even the shyest of the
forest's great ones shows no fear."
He had expected the oarsman to drag a rifle from the prow and fire
point-blank at this moose. Instead, he sat there for a second, his rough
face disfigured by a semblance of a smile; then, pocketing his flashlight,
he once again took up his oars.
For Red there was little enough time for thought.
The boat swung about. Before them lay a point of land, perhaps the end
of an island. At its extreme end was a little half clearing where a score
of girdled birches pointed their barren trunks, like dead fingers, toward
the sky.
At the edge of this clearing was a small log cabin.
From this a pale light gleamed. Toward this cabin the boat directed its
course.
"'This is the forest primeval.'" The words sprang unbidden to the boy's
lips. "'The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, bearded with moss, and
in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, stand like Druids eld, with
voices sad and prophetic, stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest
on their bosoms.'"
"And to-morrow was to have been--"
As he closed his eyes he saw what it was to have been: a wild, shouting
throng; college songs, college yells, bands, waving banners. "Go,

Midway! Go"
Two squads battling for victory. Wild scrambles.
Futile dashes. And, with good fortune, a mad dash of fifty yards to
triumphal victory.
"Life," he whispered, "is strange."
The boat bumped. A narrow landing lay beside him.
"We get off here." There was something impersonal in the tone of this
strange pilot of the night. "This'll be home for you, son, for quite some
considerable time."
"I hope you're wrong," Red thought.
The room he entered a moment later was small and very narrow. In one
corner was a cot, in another a table and chair. Across from the table
was a curious affair of sheet iron that, he guessed, might be a stove.
The place was agreeably warm. There must be a small fire. On the table
a candle burned, Turning about to seek for an explanation of all that
had been happening and of his strange surroundings, he was not a little
startled to find himself alone. The door had been silently closed behind
him. And locked? Well, perhaps. What could it matter? He was, beyond
doubt, surrounded by water, the merciless water of the north
country--some north country in November; surrounded, too, by
determined men, hostile men, perhaps, who had apparently ordained
that his stay in the cabin should be a long one. Once again, as he
dropped into the chair, there came to his mind that forceful
interrogation:
Why?"
As before, he could form no adequate answer.
His mind was busy with this problem when, with startling suddenness,
his attention was caught and held by the low sound of voices.

"Have you signed?" It was a man who spoke. The voice was not gruff;
a low, smooth, persuasive voice, too smooth, too persuasive.
Quite in contrast was the answer. Unmistakably feminine, it came sharp
and crisp as the crash of icicles fallen from the eaves. "I will never
sign."
"But consider." The man's voice was not raised, still smooth, persuasive.
"You are on an island."
"An island. I thought so," Red whispered to himself. "But who can this
girl be?" That the one beyond the partition was a girl he did not doubt.
"I will never sign!" the girl broke