[Gutenberg 47633] • Copper Coleson's Ghost

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CHAPTER I

FRIENDS—NEW AND OLD

In the rear of a white cottage, known to all residents of the town of Truesdell as “the Blake homestead,” stands a great apple tree, whose leafy boughs have afforded shade in summer and fruit in autumn to several generations of Blakes. At present, its hospitable branches have been converted into an out-of-door gymnasium by Ned Blake, great-grandson of old Josiah Blake, from whose half-eaten apple-core the tree sprang some seventy years ago. “Six feet, two inches in his socks and as wide as a door,” is how tradition describes old Josiah, and although Ned Blake at seventeen stands less than seventy inches in his sneakers and tips the scales at a trifle less than one hundred and fifty pounds, he has something of the supple strength and a goodly measure of the courage and grit that made old Josiah respected among the early settlers of Truesdell.

Clad in a sleeveless jersey, duck trousers and sneakers, Ned has just climbed a rope hand over hand to an upper limb from which he descends in a veritable cascade of cat-skinning, toe-holding, ape-like swings to drop on the turf beside his friend, Tommy Beals.

“Bully stuff!” applauded Tommy. “You sure can do the monkey tricks, Ned, but it makes me sweat just to watch ’em this weather,” and Tommy hitched his rotund form farther into the shade of the friendly tree.

“It would do you good to try some of them, Fatty,” laughed Ned. “Come on now. Here’s a simple one for a starter,” and catching a horizontal limb above his head, Ned proceeded to chin himself with first one hand, then with the other, and finished with a two-handed hoisting swing that left him seated upon the limb.

Tommy Beals wagged his head in a hopeless negative. “Nope, it can’t be done,” he sighed. “Whoever drew my plans must have been thinking about ballast instead of aviation, but if you ever want a good anchor for a tug-of-war team why just count on me.”

“All right, I’ll keep it in mind,” promised Ned, “but here’s something you can do for a little exercise,” he continued, dropping again to the ground. “I want to grind my camp axe a bit, if you’ll turn for me.”

“Sure, I’ll do it,” agreed Tommy good-naturedly and, fetching a soap box for a seat, he squatted beside a heavy grindstone that stood in the shade of the tree.

For perhaps ten minutes the sharp skurr of steel on stone sounded on the hot August air, then ceased abruptly as Ned lifted the axe from the whirling stone and tested its edge gingerly with his thumb. Tommy seized the opportunity to let go his hold of the crank-handle and wipe the beads of perspiration from his plump countenance.

“Gosh, it’s hot!” he panted. “Ain’t the old cleaver sharp yet, Ned?”

“It’s pretty good, except for a couple of nicks,” replied Ned, “but you needn’t turn any more, Fatty. Here comes Dave Wilbur and I’ll get him to spell you.”

“Yeah! I’ll sure admire to watch Weary Wilbur work,” grinned Beals, as a tall, lanky youth with hands deep in his pockets turned in at the gate and strolled leisurely across the lawn. “I’ll bet you the ice cream sodas, Ned, that Dave will find an alibi for any job—if he sees it coming,” continued Tommy, in a wheezy whisper.

“I’ll take that bet,” laughed Ned. “Hello, Dave,” he exclaimed, “you’re just in time to save Fatty’s life! Grab hold of that crank and turn a minute or so.