“Why, I’ll tell you,” answered Henry Burns, “I suppose the witchcraft is really something loose about this berth, or about one of those shelves, or lockers; and that it works with the swinging of the boat in some way, and makes a squeaking noise.” “I don’t see anything very mysterious about that,” muttered Harvey. “I don’t, either,” replied Henry Burns. “Only the queer thing about it seems to be, that when I get up and listen for it, it stops.” “Well, if any witches fly out of that locker, just wake me up to take a look at them,” laughed Harvey, preparing to roll up in his blanket again for the night. Henry Burns, also, lay down again, and the cabin was still. In about five minutes more, Henry Burns reached down quietly for one of his shoes and rapped with it on the shelf, above his head. “What’s that?” demanded Harvey, roused from the early stages of slumber—“some more of your witches? Say, you can’t make me nervous, so you better let me go to sleep.” “Jack,” said Henry Burns, arising and stepping over beside his companion, “go over and try my berth awhile. Don’t go to sleep, but keep still, and listen—and tell me what you hear.” Harvey, grumbling a little at his comrade’s oddity, complied, yawning ferociously. “If I see a witch I’ll eat him up,” he exclaimed. “I’m dead tired.” “Keep quiet,” was Henry Burns’s admonition. Harvey was silent, and again they lay still for almost ten minutes. Then, of a sudden, Harvey raised himself on an elbow. Henry Burns was all attention. “Did you hear it?” he asked, softly. “Sh-h-h,” whispered Harvey. He lifted his head close to the door of the locker and listened intently. Then, presently, he burst into laughter. “You’re right, Henry,” he cried. “They’re witches—four-legged ones—and we’ll have to clear ’em out of this cabin before they do any mischief. There’s a nest of young mice in there somewhere, and it’s them we hear squeaking.” “Well, to tell the truth, I thought of that, too,” said Henry Burns; “but I didn’t suppose mice ever got into a boat like this in the summer-time, when it’s in use.” “Well, I don’t know as I ever heard of it,” responded Harvey, “though I don’t see why they shouldn’t. The schooners and fishermen have them in the hold, often. But sure enough they’ve got in here somehow. Let’s have a look.” The boys got up, lighted two of the cabin lanterns, and proceeded to investigate. The berth on which Henry Burns had lain, and from which Harvey had just arisen, was in the middle of the boat. It was about six feet long by two feet wide, and sufficiently raised from the cabin floor to admit of two good-sized drawers occupying the space beneath. There was a locker in the side of the cabin, opening by a door close by the head, and one of the same size at the foot, of the berth. Between these was an alcove with some shelves.