Tom was singing snatches of songs, and Nat would join in when he came to a “joining,” so that the old house fairly rang with the echo of young voices and merry laughter.

Ghost!  What ghost could stand that?  Tom Scott and Nat White singing coon songs!

“Listen!” called Dorothy.  “Tavia wants you to go down cellar to make sure,” she called to the boys.

“Oh, all right,” agreed Tom.  “We’ll do the coal-bin and the wine cellar.  Now, if we only could chance upon an old bottle of home-made grape juice!”

He slid down the baluster rail in spite of Dorothy’s protest, for the floor below was of mosaics, and the rail might not be safe.  But Tom landed without accident, and presently was looking for a passageway to the cellar.

With some difficulty the way was finally discovered, and Tom almost tumbled down the dark passage as the door, first obstinate, suddenly gave way to his pressure.

It was dark in the cellar—­too dark for even Tom’s comfort, but after making a series of queer calls, and also supplying the answers, he returned to the first floor, “intact,” as Dorothy announced.

But Tom whispered something to Nat—­when the girls were not near enough to observe him.

“Things down there!” he said.  “I could even smell them, and they did not seem musty, either.  Besides, look at everything.  Nothing cut up or damaged, like an old, deserted place.  Some one may hang out here.”

“The ghost,” admitted Nat.  “Let’s see what it looks like outdoors.”

Nat put his hand on the pocket, from which his diminutive revolver could be seen to be outlined, and when the front door was opened a gust of wind and snow forced him, as well as Tom, back into shelter.

“Rough,” commented Tom, “and almost dark.”

“Fierce!” exclaimed Nat in pardonable disgust.  “How in the world are we to get back?”

“Oh, can’t we go now?” came from Dorothy.  “It seems to be getting worse, and if we don’t get out of here before dark—­”

“Oh, let us go!” pleaded Tavia.  “I am just scared to death.  This sort of thing is all right for a page or two, but when it gets into a serial—­”

“Not very interesting after the first glance, I’ll admit,” replied Tom; “but the nearest house must be half a mile away.”

“Suppose we run the machine into the shed and start off to walk?” suggested Nat, now rather uncomfortable because of Tom’s hint about the cellar.  “It will be better for the girls, at any rate.  There’s a farmhouse at the turn into Glendale.”

It did not take long for the party to follow out this proposal, and in spite of the wind and snow the four young people started bravely off, Nat supporting Dorothy, while Tom put his strong arm about the uncertain Tavia—­uncertain because she not only slipped continually, but threatened to do so in between the actual occurrences.

“Awful!” called back Nat, who was somewhat in advance.