Mun Bun and Margy probably heard it, also, but they were too busy finishing their bread and milk to say anything.  Probably they knew that Russ and Rose, who always looked after them, would take care of the strange noise.

“Oh, that noise!” exclaimed Mrs. Thompson, as once more the hollow groan sounded, throughout the house.  “You weren’t afraid of that, were you?” And her eyes began to twinkle, then she laughed.

“A—­a little,” admitted Rose.

“It sounds like the cur’us noise at Great Hedge,” added Russ.

“Well, I didn’t know you had a curious noise at your grandfather’s place,” went on Mrs. Thompson.  “First I ever heard of it.”

“Oh, yes, there’s a ghost there, only it isn’t a ghost ’cause there’s no such thing!  Daddy said so!” exclaimed Rose.  “But we got——­”

“We’ve got a funny noise there,” said Russ, breaking in on what his sister was saying.  “It sounds like your noise, too.”

“Well, there’s nothing so very curious about this noise,” laughed Mrs. Thompson.  “That’s only my husband playing on the big horn he used to blow when he was in the band.  He hasn’t used it much for years, and can’t blow it as well as he used to.  But that’s what the noise is.  Every once in a while he takes a notion and goes up into the attic and blows on the horn.  I imagine he did it this time to amuse you children.  I’ll ask him.

“Jabez!” she called up the stairs that led to the small second story of the house.  “Jabez!  Is that you blowing the old bass horn?”

“Yes, Sarah, that’s me,” was the answer.

“Only I can’t seem to blow it just right.  Something appears to have got stopped up in the horn, or else maybe it’s frozen.  It doesn’t blow like it used to.”

“I should think it didn’t!” laughed his wife.  “Stop your tooting, and bring the horn down where the children can see it.  Some of ’em thought it was a ghost, such as they have at Great Hedge.  Did you ever hear of a ghost there?”

“Oh, I’ve heard some talk of it,” answered Mr. Thompson, and now the six little Bunkers could hear him coming downstairs.  He seemed to be carrying something large and heavy.

“Why didn’t you tell me about it?” asked his wife.  “I like ghost stories.”

“Oh, this isn’t really a ghost,” quickly explained Rose.  “It’s just a queer, groaning sound, and it comes in the middle of the night sometimes, and my daddy and grandpa can’t find out what it is.”

“Maybe it was Mr. Thompson blowing his horn,” suggested Russ.  “It sounded like that.”

“Well, I’m sorry my playing sounds as bad as that,” laughed Mr. Thompson, and then he came into the room where the children were, carrying a large brass horn, the kind that play the bass, or heavy, notes in a band.  Putting his lips to the mouthpiece Mr. Thompson made the same “umph-umph!” sound that had so startled the children at first.

“Does that sound like the ghost?” he asked Russ.