The Mystery at Bob-White Cave

hard!
    They’re goin’ to hang me. The law says they can,
    But whoever hangs me hangs an innocent man.
     
    “The man that is guilty had better beware,
    For my spirit will haunt him by land and by air.
    Some wild, scary night I’ll come out of the gloom
    And send his mean soul bleeding off to its doom.”
     
    As Linnie twanged the last mournful notes on her guitar, something swished in the air outside and crashed, then rolled down the rough shingled roof. Startled, Honey and Trixie jumped from their chairs. The boys turned and stood there motionless, listening intently.
    “It was just a rock,” Uncle Andrew said. “They break loose from the ledge up there and fall once in a while. It was timed just right, wasn’t it? It really wasn’t Peter Degraph’s ghost, Trix!”
    “Nobody knows it wasn’t,” Mrs. Moore said positively, a quiver in her voice.
    Uncle Andrew chuckled. “You’ve never shown me a ghost yet.”
    “I hope I don’t,” Mrs. Moore answered. “Mostly they come to warn people of bad things that will soon happen.”
    Honey shivered. “Do you know any funny songs, Linnie?”
    Linnie ran her fingers up and down the strings and began to sing in a lilting voice,
     
“Jaybird died with the whoopin’ cough,
Snowbird died with the colic.
Met a froggie with a fiddle on his back
A-goin’ to the frolic.
 
“He played fiddle dee dee.
He played fiddle de fon.
And the bees and the birds and
The jolly little fleas
Danced till the break of dawn.”
     
    Jim pulled his harmonica out of his pocket and caught the melody of Linnie’s song, and they all clapped and stomped their feet in rhythm.
    Suddenly the screen door snapped shut. The young people jumped to their feet. Trixie ran ahead and pulled back the curtain.
    “I see someone—a dark shape out beyond the cow shed!”
    In a moment, Uncle Andrew was outside, rifle in-, hand—the Bob-Whites, Mrs. Moore, and Linnie close after him. They looked everywhere and saw nothing. Jacob came sniffing around Mrs. Moore’s skirts, whining in the back of his throat.
    “Jacob didn’t bark!” Mrs. Moore said wonderingly.
    “He wasn’t here—just came in through the woods,”! Uncle Andrew said. “Are you sure you saw someone, Trixie?”
    “She’s always imagining she sees things,” Mart said. “We were having so much fun. Let’s go back in the house so Linnie can sing some more.”
    “Who slammed the screen door?” Mrs. Moore asked. “It didn’t slam itself.”
    “It probably snapped shut with the wind,” Uncle Andrew said.
    Mrs. Moore looked skeptical. Trixie didn’t believe it at all. She was sure she really had seen someone outside. The mystery deepened when, as they finally went back into the house, Linnie found a little crippled bird on the back porch.
    “Matthew always brought anything hurt home for me to look after,” Mrs. Moore said. “It was his spirit was here. Oh, why couldn’t I talk to him?”
    “Nonsense, Mrs. Moore,” Uncle Andrew said brusquely. “When the stone rolled off the roof, it hit the little bird, and it fell to the porch. It’s simple. There just isn’t any such thing as a ghost.”
    Mrs. Moore took Linnie by the hand and said soberly, “We’ll bid you good night, Mr. Belden. Come, Linnie.”
    Upstairs, when they were getting ready for bed, Trixie cupped her hand over the chimney of the kerosine lamp, ready to blow it out. “Gosh,” she said, “do you really think it could have been Linnie’s father’s ghost?”
    ‘Who’s the one with the imagination now?” Honey asked.
    Maybe it is imagination. I guess it is.” Trixie climbed into her bunk. “But the queerest things keep happening here in these woods.”
     

Swim to Safety • 6
    I HEARD SLIM ride up a while ago,” Trixie said as she put on her blue jeans. “I suppose he’s waiting for us downstairs. We’d better hurry. He doesn’t think too much of dudes, anyway.”
    “It’s only seven o’clock.” Honey glanced at her wristwatch. “I thought we were going to forget about what Slim said.”
    “You’re right. I’ll forget it. The big thing is to get that reward. The last one down is a four-eyed catfish!” Slim, at the breakfast table, answered the Bob-Whites’ greetings with an unintelligible grunt. He’d just finished a plate of Mrs. Moore’s cornmeal pancakes and wiped the syrup from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ready?”
    “When we finish our breakfast,” Trixie answered, “and when we get our things