Those behind pushed and shoved, holding an unwilling Bull at his post of observation, but they couldn’t keep Pete any longer. With a grunt of terror he hurled himself away and, seizing the nearest cap from the banquet board, he pulled the door wide and fairly hurtled through it. And as he went his voice broke startlingly on the air. “_Ghosts! Ghosts! Ghosts!_” Charley Nagel wasted no time in recovering his cap. He was but a scant three yards behind Pete at the porch. And as he took the leap into the darkness that horrible wail came again and put new power into his legs! Behind him, although he knew it not, followed four terror-stricken comrades. Bull and Harper, the last through the doorway, reached it together and, since the passage was narrow, hung there for a long instant, clawing, prancing, grunting, ere, with the desperation born of utter demoralization, they shot through with a jar that shook the cabin and legged it away in the darkness. In their ears sounded that unearthly wail, that banshee cry of fear and anguish, and their blood seemed to freeze in their veins. Bull went fair into a tree, bounded off with a loud grunt, rolled over twice, picked himself up once more and after that gained at every leap. Presently the noise of crashing underbrush, the thud-thud of flying feet died away into silence. Once more the _lap-lap-lapping_ of the little waves was the only sound about Camp Peejay. Half an hour later Philip leaned back in his chair and sighed with repletion. Joe reached for the coffee pot and helped himself to a third cup of that steaming beverage, but he did it in a half-hearted, listless way that told its own story. Before the two lay the sorry fragments of what had once been two large, thick steaks, and there remained only traces of many fried onions and boiled potatoes. Of the dozen bottles of ginger ale but two had been opened. The others would be presently put away for future consideration. Philip sighed again and pushed his tin plate further away with a gesture that almost suggested distaste. “Gee,” he murmured, “I’ll never be able to get home to-night!” Joe nodded sympathetically. “Wish we’d told the folks we weren’t coming,” he said. After a moment he added: “They didn’t come back, did they?” Philip chuckled. “I knew they wouldn’t. Why, they’re almost to town now, and I’ll bet some of them are still running! You surely did look spooky in that sheet, Joe! I was mighty near scared myself!” “Don’t say anything,” replied Joe feelingly. “Every time you made those sounds on your fiddle I nearly stopped breathing! Say, what do you suppose they thought it was?” But that question had been discussed at length already and the subject held no more interest for Philip. Instead of offering further guesses he said: “We’d better get those invitations posted to-morrow.” “Yes,” agreed Joe. There followed another long and dreamy silence. Then Philip spoke again.