The Mystery of the Galloping Ghost

hay that remained in the final
stall.
     
    Bill
Murrow certainly loved a good prank. At lunch, he gleefully retold the story to
Charlene, Pat, Regan, and Gus. He even got up from the table to act out the
final scene, opening the door of a kitchen cabinet and letting a look of
dumbfounded shock spread over his face.
    Charlene
laughed, Regan and Pat smiled, Gus chuckled, and Trixie and Honey giggled until
the tears streamed down their faces.
    “ Th -there’s just one problem,” Trixie spluttered. “We never
hid the stuff in the first place.”
    “We
didn’t. Honest!” Honey chimed in. But the girls knew that their giggles made
their story far from convincing.
    “Oh,
sure,” Bill said.
    Any
further discussion was interrupted by a loud crash from the living room. Charlene
leaped up from the table and went to see what it was. She came back wearing a
bemused look and carrying a large picture frame. “The picture of Jupiter—it
fell right off the wall!” she said. “The glass cracked, but the picture’s all right.” She held out the picture to show Bill.
    He
studied it carefully. “Jupiter always was spirited,” he said quietly. He handed
the picture to Regan. “That was the first Murrow Arabian. My father brought him
all the way from New York State .”
    Trixie
and Honey both looked at Pat, who nodded, confirming the guess that this was
the horse he’d told them about during their picnic.
    “That’s
a spirited-looking horse, all right,” Regan said. “I imagine it’s kind of hard
to keep him mounted on a wall.”
    Charlene
reached out and took the picture from Regan. “It’s never been hard before. Why,
I’ll bet this picture was hanging in the same place for twenty years. I wonder
what made it fall down now.”
    Bill
rose from the table, leaving half his food on his plate. He kissed his wife on
the top of the head. “We’re all getting older,” he said. “It’s getting harder
for all of us to hang on.” He left the house without looking back.
    Charlene
Murrow looked at her son. “It isn’t easy for him, you know,” she said.
    Pat
looked back at his mother and nodded. “I know it now,” he said. He got up and
followed his father to the stable.
    Trixie
felt tears welling up in her eyes, but this time they weren’t tears of
laughter. They’re such good people, she thought. Everything’s got to
work out for them. It’s just got to.
    The
crack in the picture of Jupiter seemed almost magically to mend the
relationship between Pat and Bill Murrow. That afternoon, the girls saw father
and son working side by side, each giving instruction and encouragement to the
other.
    Regan,
who had been actively working with the Murrows for
the past two days, withdrew, content to stand by and
watch. Trixie and Honey took up places on either side of him. “I won’t even ask
how you did it,” Regan said.
    “Did
what?” Trixie asked.
    “Made
the picture fall off the wall,” Regan replied. “All I can say is , the boy I rode with this morning was hurting and angry.
Now he isn’t. Although,” Regan added, “you couldn’t have predicted this result.
That’s what makes practical jokes so dangerous.”
    Trixie
groaned. “We didn’t have anything to do with that picture. Honest! We didn’t
make the combs and brushes disappear, either. Our only practical joke was
replacing the stuff and waiting for Bill to find it.”
    “Honest,”
Honey echoed.
    Regan
stared at them, a bemused frown on his face. “It doesn’t seem much like your
style,” he admitted. “Not without brother
    Mart around to put ideas in your heads, anyway.”
    “We
didn’t do it,” Trixie repeated.
    “Well,
maybe it was just an accident,” Regan conceded.
    “A
lucky accident,” Honey added, looking out at Pat and his father.
     
    That
night after dinner, Pat didn’t make his hasty retreat to his room. He stayed at
the table even after Regan excused himself and left the house. Sensing that the Murrows had things to talk over, Trixie and Honey excused
themselves, too, and went to their room. They read, chatted, and stared out the
window at the lovely green landscape. All the time they were aware of a low
murmur of voices. They couldn’t make out what was being said, but at least
there were no angry sounds, and the length of the conversation itself seemed
like a good sign.
    The
girls were both sprawled on their beds writing letters home, when a sudden gust
of wind tore through the open window. The curtains billowed out,