“It gives me the shivers!” confessed Mabel. “Let’s go——” She did not finish the sentence. Through the hollow stillness that seemed to weigh down her words sounded a mournful groan. CHAPTER IX AN EXCITED CONSTABLE “What was that?” whispered Marie. “Some one is hurt!” murmured Natalie. Mrs. Bonnell began a search for her useful little ammonia gun, but found she had left it in camp. “Where was that noise, fellows?” demanded practical Jack. Before any of them could answer him the groan sounded again, louder than before. With a bound Marie was out of the door narrowly missing a fall on the rickety steps. Mabel followed, but Natalie and Alice stood their ground, perhaps because Mrs. Bonnell had grasped each of them by an arm. “Don’t be silly,” exclaimed Phil. “Probably it’s only a tramp who’s talking in his sleep.” “A tramp!” gasped Natalie. “Come out of here!” demanded Alice, getting, ready for a retreat. “It was upstairs,” said Blake, indicating a flight of rotting steps. “Some one is up there.” Again the groan sounded, and there was no mistaking it. It did come from above their heads. Then a voice called: “Is any one there? Help me! I’ve had a fall!” “It’s old man Hanson!” exclaimed Jack. “He’s up there. Come on, boys!” He sprang forward. Blake called after him: “Be careful of those stairs. They look as if they’d come down if you blew on ’em.” “If they held him to go up, they’ll stand for me,” declared Jack. “Come on!” “Let’s go outside,” suggested Mrs. Bonnell. “If you need us, boys, you can call us,” she added. “If he is hurt, I know something about first-aid work.” “We’ll call you if we need you,” replied Blake. “Now let’s have a look.” Cautiously they went up the shaky stairs, one at a time so as not to put too much of a strain on them. At first it was so dark in the second story that they could see nothing. Then Jack called: “What’s the matter? Who is it? Are you hurt?” “It’s me—Hanson Rossmore,” was the halting answer. “I tripped in a hole and sprained my ankle I guess. Can you help me down?” “I guess so,” answered Jack. “Let’s get a little light on the subject though,” and he opened one of the old solid-wood shutters, that covered the glassless window. They saw the old hermit, for such he was, lying in the corner of what had evidently been a storeroom of the old mill. He seemed in pain, and one leg was doubled under him. “How did it happen?” asked Jack, as the boys raised him up. “Ouch! Oh, my!” he cried, as the weight came on the injured foot. “I can’t step on it.” “Wait, I’ll get you a stick,” volunteered Blake, hurrying outside. “Is he—is he dead?” asked Mabel. “Dead! And him groaning the way he did? Not much!” cried the lad. “It’s only a sprained ankle or something like that. We’ll get him to his shack and he’ll be all right.” “Poor old man,” murmured Natalie.