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Updated: May 10, 2025
"Well who are they? name them." Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's Nicholas Vedder?" There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin, piping voice: "Nicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too." "Where's Brom Dutcher?"
There were varying degrees of bravery shown in that instant. Not one of the Grammar School boys dreamed that they could best Fred Ripley's crew in a rough-and-tumble, but Dick & Co. were all determined to be as "game" as possible. It was different with Hen Dutcher. He turned pale and shook like a leaf.
"Whew, but having that door open has made this place a cold storage plant!" "Fellows," spoke up Dick, "if this blizzard is to continue, we'll presently freeze to death in here unless we get more firewood while we can." "All right," grinned Dalzell. "I've a suggestion, and it's a bully one. We'll appoint Hen Dutcher a committee of one on the woodpile.
Tom took hold of Hen by the collar, propelling him rapidly across the cabin floor. Dick and Greg were slipping rapidly into coats, caps, overshoes and mittens. Dick picked up the crowbar and Greg the lantern. Hen Dutcher, making the gloomy discovery that it must be work or fight, submitted sulkily. "Don't hold the door open. Open it when we holler," was Dick's parting direction.
"Then let's have something else for breakfast and keep the turkey until noon," suggested Dutcher. "I can't wait for my breakfast." "What do you fellows say?" asked Dick, putting it to a vote, but ignoring Hen. "Shall it be turkey for breakfast?" "Turkey!" solemnly voted five Grammar School boys. "I call it a shame to treat a fellow like this," grumbled Hen.
You don't count," interposed Greg ironically. "Fitsey'd eat us up alive if he guessed the truth and came over here," contended Dutcher stubbornly. "Hey, Dick! What on earth are you doing?" "Shoving one of the shutters back," Prescott answered, going on with his task. "Hey! Don't do that!" pleaded Hen hoarsely, running over to Dick and grabbing one of the latter's arms.
"I er I'm not going to tell you anything about that," retorted Hen, trying to conceal his embarrassment under an air of mystery. "But say, Hen," put in another boy, across the crowd, after winking at Dick, "I really don't see how you could help being scared when you heard those ghost noises the first time." "Huh! Me? Scared?" responded Dutcher indignantly. "No, sir! Being scared isn't in my line.
"I think that must have been a sailor's ghost," remarked Prescott, at last, "and he got his bearings wrong. He said, half an hour ago, that he was coming in but he didn't." "How can you t-t-talk about g-g-g-ghosts like that?" shuddered Dutcher, whose face was still invisible to the others.
Rogers's store meant good salary and promotion. He had never dared to hope for such good fortune. "If you think I can give satisfaction " "You manipulated Old Dutcher, and you've earned enough in a very slow-going place to put you through your business-college term, so I am sure you are the man I'm looking for.
"If you don't think you'd have to beat your way, to reach the wood pile to-night," retorted Tom, "then just go out again and face the wind and storm. Hen, are you going?" "No, I'm not," snapped Dutcher. "Then I'm a prophet," declared Reade solemnly. "I can see you and me having trouble." "I won't go," cried Hen, with an ugly leer. "I know what you want to do.
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