The Galloping Ghost | Page 8

find something, Sergeant?" a fresh voice broke in.
"Just a sheet that had been stepped on." Howe looked into the frank,
fearless eyes of a boy. It was Johnny Thompson. You know Johnny.
"Gee!" Howe muttered. "I'm glad to see you!" Are you in this with us?"
"All my heart and hand!" The hand Johnny gave to Howe was as hard
as a rock. "This will be a night and day affair. I'm glad. That's the sort I
like."
"Day and night and all the time," Howe answered. "But let's get out of
here. The section is due to move, and I've finished. Drew's scouting
around down by the river."
Thus, while the forces that make for evil had been whirling Red Rogers
northward, the forces that make for good, like faithful watch dogs, were
assembling, making ready to take up the trail, heedless of the perils that

most certainly lurked beside the way.
The pair had just alighted from the car when of a sudden a startling
figure appeared before them.
Rounding the end of the car it started toward them--a skeleton with
bones bleached white, a white robe flowing behind it! This was the
form that in the dim light of the car-yard approached them.
With an involuntary exclamation Johnny started back. Not Tom Howe.
With the spring of a panther he was upon the creature. Next instant he
was sprawling upon the ground. He had received such a blow on the
head as put him out for the count of ten. Then, with a laugh as hollow
as a voice from a graveyard at midnight, the skeleton set off at a long
striding gallop.
He was lost from sight before Johnny could recover from his surprise
or Tom Howe could scramble to his feet.
"A--a galloping ghost!" Johnny exclaimed, as he bent over his
companion. "Are you hurt?"
"No--not much." Howe was coming round.
"Hardly at all. But, man! Oh, man! What hard knuckles that ghost has!"
"What's this? A ghost?" Once more a new voice broke in upon them.
Johnny looked up, then scowled. He had recognized the voice of a
reporter from the city's pink journal. He hated the paper and disliked
this reporter.
But when one speaks of a ghost he needs must explain.
Explain he did, and that with the least possible number of words.
"A ghost! A galloping ghost on the scene of kidnaping that is sure to
cause a nation-wide search!

What a scoop!" The reporter was away even before Johnny had
completed his meager description.
"A galloping ghost." Johnny pronounced the words slowly as Howe,
now quite recovered, stood up beside him, then scowled.
"What do you make of that?"
"Not a thing," Howe answered bluntly. But after all, the real question is,
is this ghost for us or against us?"
"Do ghosts always take sides?"
"Oh inevitably!" Howe laughed a short cackling laugh that went far
toward relieving the tension of the moment.
"Come!" he said. "Let's see what Drew has been doing. He--"
"Watch out! Duck!" Seizing Johnny's arm with a vice-like grip, he
dragged him down.
Not an instant too soon. There came the crack of a pistol, followed by
the dull thwack of a bullet against the side of the car just over their
heads, And after that a cold, dead silence.
CHAPTER V
RED WINS TO LOSE
DREW LANE, Tom Howe's team mate, had not seen the Galloping
Ghost. In truth it was some distance from the sleeping car to the river
bank. After picking his way across the tracks, flashing his light this
way and that in search of clues--some article dropped in hasty flight, a
broken match, a cigarette thrown away--he came at last to a narrow
stretch of rockstrewn, cinder-embedded ground.
Here his mood changed. Snapping off his light, he thrust one hand deep
in his coat pocket and sauntered forward like some college youth taking

the air.
This was Drew Lane's favorite pose. With his faultless derby, his
spotless suit of sea-green and his natty tie, he carried it off well. Many
a tough egg had called him a "fresh college kid," only to find himself
the next moment lying on the sidewalk feeling of a lump on his jaw
caused only by Drew's capable fist.
That fist at this moment was curled around a nasty looking thing of
blue steel. At a second's notice Drew could set that blue steel pal of his
spouting fire, right through his pocket. And his aim, while indulging in
this type of shooting, was the despair of all evil doers.
Drew was approaching what appeared to be a dangerous spot. In the
half darkness before him a great steam shovel mounted on a dredge
stood with crane outstretched like some fabled bird ready to bend down
and