The secret of the Mansion

it wasn’t a ghost," she giggled. "But who in the world can he be? He must be about Brian s age—fifteen or so, don’t you think?"
    Honey nodded. "I’m scared. Suppose he wakes up and finds us here. He might shoot us with that awful-looking gun."
    Trixie was not at all sure that the boy wouldn’t do just that, but she took a cautious step forward, hoping to read the inscription on the silver mug. The floorboard creaked suddenly, startling her so that she lost her balance and clutched at the stack of mildewed books. The pile swayed for a minute in midair; then the books toppled to the floor with a loud crash.
    The girls stood frozen in their tracks as the boy woke up in a flash and grabbed the gun. There was no sign of friendliness on the boy’s freckled face, and his green eyes were dark with suspicion.
    Honey found her voice first. "Oh, please, don’t shoot us," she almost sobbed. "We didn’t mean to spy on you. Really we didn’t."
    The boy frowned and set his jaw. "What are you doing here?" he demanded sullenly. "You have no business in this house."
    Trixie came out of her shocked trance then. "Neither have you," she said hotly. "This place belongs to Mr. James Winthrop Frayne, our neighbor. My father took him to the hospital this morning. We were just checking to be sure all the doors and windows were locked. But you," she finished, "seem to have moved right in."
    The boy got slowly to his feet, still clutching the gun. "To the hospital?" he repeated dazedly. "Where, and why? What are you talking about?"
    "The Sleepyside Hospital," Trixie told him. "He’s got pneumonia and he’s half-starved, too. Not," she added, "that it’s any of your business, but the doctors don’t think he’ll get well."
    The boy’s broad shoulders drooped disconsolately as he carefully laid the gun on the mattress at his heels. "I thought he was dead," he said, more to himself than to the girls. "When I got here this miming and found the place deserted and filled with junk, I figured Uncle James must have died a long time ago.
    "Uncle James!" Trixie and Honey stared at him, wide-eyed. "Was—is—Mr. Frayne your uncle?"
    For answer the boy reached down and picked up the silver cup. He held it so that Trixie could see the engraving. She read the words out loud in an astonished voice: "James Winthrop Frayne II."
    "My great-uncle," the boy explained. "I walked most of the way from Albany to find him. But I guess I got here too late." He shrugged. "Well, I’ll stick around for a while, anyway. There’s a vegetable garden in the back and plenty of chickens and rabbits and squirrels. And," he went on in a sullen, threatening voice, "if you girls tell anyone I’m here, I’ll fix you good."
    "We’re not tattletales," Trixie cried indignantly in protest.
    "But what about your father and mother?" Honey asked. "Won t they worry about you?"
    "I haven’t any family except Uncle James," the boy told her in a still more sullen voice. "I’ve got a stepfather, if you can call him that. I call him Simon Legree, myself. And if he finds out where I am, he’ll drag me back to his farm and beat me and make me slave from morning till night without pay." Tensely, he wound his strong fingers around the silver mug. "I tell you, I won’t go back and nobody’s going to make me. See?"
    Timidly, almost tearfully, Honey burst out with: "Of course you don’t have to go back. You can come home and live with my family. My father’ll adopt you. I’ve always wanted a brother, and Daddy’s got lots of money so you can have a horse and a dog and anything else you want. Nobody’ll ever beat you again."
    "Don’t be silly," Trixie interrupted. "He can stay at our house, where he’ll have brothers about the same age. I’ve got three of them." She grinned. "The youngest one is an awful pest, but Brian and Mart are swell. And my mother and father are simply wonderful."
    The boy laughed sarcastically. "Gee, you two are funny," he sneered. "Arguing about who’s going to have me. Stop your kidding! One would think you really meant it."
    "I do mean it," Trixie and Honey cried together, and then they laughed, too.
    "I believe you do," he said, sobering slowly, and all of the tense stubbornness seemed to ebb out of him. "Nobody’s been nice to me since my mother died two years ago, and I guess I’ve forgotten how to act with decent people." He held out his right hand. "Shake," he said. "My name’s Jim. What’s yours?"
    Solemnly, the girls shook hands