Another shriek of the wind, that rattled the loose window panes on the floor above, as though by a hundred unseen hands. The colonel crouched down on the stairs for a moment--and then, oh, what a hideous sound was that! Somewhere, from the vague spaces of the upper part of the mill, there was wafted down to him such a noise as he had never heard; it squeaked and it thrummed; it moaned deep, and it wailed with an unearthly, piercing sound. There was the sorrow and the agony of a thousand voices in it. It blended now with the wind, and added to the cry of that; again it rose above the wind, and pierced the colonel's very soul. Colonel Witham, clutching his lantern with desperation, fairly slid down the stairs, his legs wabbling weakly as he tried to stay himself. He landed in a heap at the foot. Then, rising with a mighty effort, he fled from the mill, up the road to the Half Way House. Some moments later, seven boys, shaking with laughter, emerged from the garret room and resumed their search. Colonel Witham had heard the strains of Henry Burns's horse-fiddle. CHAPTER XVI THE GOLDEN COIN LOST AGAIN "Let's look, Tim! Let me see. Say, where'd you find it? Bring it here to the light." The crowd of boys, much excited, was jostling Little Tim, plying him with more questions than he could answer, and each one trying to grasp at something that he held in his hand. Proceeding into the main room of the mill, Tim held his prize close to the light of three lanterns. It was a small box, tied with cords, and contained apparently something like coin, by the clinking sound that came from within. "I found it out in the mill, where the water comes in and where the big wheels are," said Tim, breathlessly. "Sounds as though there was money in it, don't it? It was just where one of the shafts goes through part of a beam. The beam is cut away there, and room enough left for this, right under the shafting. Nobody'd ever think of going near it when the mill was running; but I climbed up there and took hold of the shaft, and I spied it." He was tearing off the cords as he spoke; and now, as he opened the cover, sure enough, there was disclosed a handful or two of small coin: some quarters and dimes and pennies--but nothing of great value. These were intermingled with some papers, folded small. John Ellison snatched at these and quickly unfolded them. But they read disappointment for him. They were nothing more than a lot of receipted bills, for supplies brought to the miller. Then they counted the coin. There was a dollar and eighty odd cents in cash. Tim Reardon was elated enough, and evidently thought the discovery justified any amount of laborious searching; but the faces of John Ellison and Henry Burns were eloquent of disappointment. "Too bad, John," remarked Henry Burns, putting his hand on the other's shoulder. "I thought we'd struck it at last. Want to hunt any more?"