Chapter 6

Mr. Camphor had been right: they slept peacefully. The mosquitoes came singing through the trees, gave one sniff, and then flew off, whining angrily, in search of more savory game. The ghost didn’t bother them either. And when they woke up in the morning, and the sun was slanting through the trees and sparkling on the lake, they felt a lot more cheerful.

Only there wasn’t anything for breakfast.

“Why can’t we paddle across and have breakfast at your house?” said Freddy.

“With Aunt Minerva?” Mr. Camphor inquired.

“H’m,” said Freddy. “Burnt toast. Let’s see if there aren’t some supplies in the hotel.”

They washed in the lake—Freddy had to keep his coonskin cap on for fear of being recognized by the woods animals, but he got the lower part of his face clean—and then took the trail to Lakeside. Mr. Camphor went out to the kitchen, but Freddy said he wanted to go into the office to look for clues.

He found one almost at once. A long piece of cord was tied to the outside knob of the door that opened into the lounge. “So that was the way our ghost made the door open so slowly,” he said to himself.

In the office he looked in the desk drawer for Mrs. Filmore’s pistol, but it was gone. “The ghost came back after we left,” he thought. “Probably wanted to get that gun. That’s why he opened that door and then ran around outside and yelled at the window so we’d clear out.”

Pretty soon Mr. Camphor came back from the kitchen. “Nothing there,” he said. “But I found half a loaf of bread and a glass of currant jelly.”

Freddy showed him the cord.

“Our ghost, eh?” he said. “How disappointing! Dear me, I’d almost begun to believe in him.”

Freddy said: “I should think you’d be glad to find out that whoever is causing all this trouble is real flesh and blood.”

“Well, I’m not. I’d much rather have a ghost to fight. What can a ghost do?”

“He can scare you half to death.”

“And that’s all he can do,” said Mr. Camphor. “He can’t sneak up and hit you with a club. All he can do is yell in your ear. I bet you if a ghost jumped out and yelled at you, and you just laughed at him, he’d burst into tears. My goodness, I feel kind of sorry for ghosts; they can’t do a thing but glide around in sheets and moan and make scary noises. I suppose that’s why they don’t ever seem to accomplish much.”

“Well, you can have your ghosts,” Freddy said. “I’d rather be hit with a club than scared into fits. And how about that giant cat that looked in the window—was that real?”

“Oh, it was real all right. I never saw a cat that big, but it might be some kind of leopard. I’ve heard of people training them to hunt. If it was …” He shivered.

“It was a man in a false face,” said Freddy. “Oh, yes it was! Because I saw its eyes move, and they were brown. I’ve seen cats with yellow eyes, and with green, and even blue ones, but I never yet saw a cat with brown eyes.”

“You know what I think?” said Mr. Camphor after a minute. “That man, whoever he is, is trying to scare people away from this hotel. He’s been pretty successful at it, so he’ll keep on playing ghost. And that means that he won’t show himself in the daytime. So today is our chance to look around and try to find out something about him.”

They ate their bread and jelly and then went to work. “You know,” said Mr. Camphor, “what puzzles me is how the ghost gets up here. And where does he go in the daytime? He can’t just live in the woods; he must come nights. I checked the tire marks out in the road—the only ones are Mrs. Filmore’s.”

“I guess he glides,” Freddy said. “You know—just comes kind of floating through the trees with a kind of faint fizzing noise.”

“Let’s have a look at the cellar,” said Mr. Camphor. “You can tell more about folks by looking around their cellar than anywhere else in the house.”

The cellar was a mess. A water pipe had burst and flooded it and evidently Mrs. Filmore hadn’t been able to get the break repaired. She had just turned the water off. Freddy examined the pipe, then he said: “Look here—this pipe didn’t break; it was gnawed.”

“Oh, go on,” said Mr. Camphor. “I don’t believe even an alligator could gnaw through an iron pipe.”

“I don’t suppose one ever tried,” Freddy said. “Anyway, this pipe isn’t iron,—it’s lead. And look at the teeth marks. My guess is if we look again at those beams that fell down under the porch, we’ll find the same marks.” He looked meaningly at his friend. “And do you know who made them?”

“Don’t look at me,” Mr. Camphor protested. “I didn’t do it.”

“No ghost has strong enough teeth to do it either,” said Freddy. “Rats did it. And I’m afraid I know their names.”

“You don’t mean those rats that were in my attic last year?”

“Simon and his gang—yes. After we drove them out of your house they could have got around the lake and up here, I suppose. This is just the kind of place they like—a big rambling building with a storeroom full of food. Let’s look at the pantry.”

But there was no sign of rats in the pantry, nor could they find any rat holes anywhere in the hotel.

“That’s queer,” Freddy said. “I’m sure it was rats that tore up those hotel bedrooms, and it was rats that wrecked our camp: those tent loops were gnawed, not cut. It’s the kind of vandalism rats think is fun. But I never knew ’em to pass up a good feed, and that pantry must have been full of supplies.”

“Speaking of supplies,” said Mr. Camphor, “I’d better paddle over and get some.”

Freddy said maybe he’d better go—he wanted to get Mrs. Wiggins’ advice.

“All right,” said Mr. Camphor. “Can you manage a canoe?”

Until Mr. Camphor had paddled him across the lake yesterday, Freddy had never been in a canoe. But it had looked pretty easy. “Oh, sure,” he said confidently. So they went back to camp, and Freddy turned the canoe over and slid it into the water and got in.

Now when he sat down in the stern seat, his weight made the bow come right up out of the water. He took a stroke with the paddle as he had seen Mr. Camphor do. But instead of going ahead, the canoe swung halfway around, and a second stroke whirled it farther, so that it was now pointing back to the shore.

His weight made the bow come right up out of the water.

“You’ll have to put a rock in the bow to keep it down,” Mr. Camphor called. “You won’t be able to manage it at all when you get out where there’s a breeze.”

Freddy could see that this made sense, but how was he to get a rock? He was ten yards from shore. He tried two more strokes, and then he was twenty yards from shore, and had made one more complete revolution.

“The blame thing keeps skidding!” he shouted. “How do you make it go straight?”

Mr. Camphor shouted back some instructions, but the breeze had caught the canoe now and blown it still farther out, and Freddy couldn’t understand the words. He paddled furiously, and the harder he paddled the faster he whirled, and every time he came around he saw Mr. Camphor standing on the shore, yelling and waving his arms, and growing smaller and smaller in the distance.

It was a good thing for Freddy that the breeze was blowing in the direction he wanted to go, or goodness knows where he would have ended up. As it was, he was blown right across the lake and landed not far from Mr. Camphor’s house. Bannister, who had been watching, came down and helped pull the canoe up, and told him that Mrs. Wiggins had gone back home.

“I’ll have to go down, too,” said Freddy. “There are some things I have to see to at the farm. Here’s a list of things Mr. Camphor made out; if you’ll get them ready I’ll be back this afternoon and … Golly, how’ll I get across the lake?”

But Bannister said he could paddle him over, so when Freddy had taken off his camping disguise—which wasn’t necessary on this side of the lake—he started for the Bean farm.

Mrs. Wiggins had told the animals all about Lakeside, and about Mr. Camphor’s aunts, and they crowded around Freddy, firing questions, and suggesting plans for getting rid of Miss Elmira and Miss Minerva.

“Quiet! Quiet!” he said. “I can’t hear myself think. Now listen, animals. Mrs. Wiggins has told you that our friend Mr. Camphor is in need of help. But the case is more serious than we thought. It’s a question of getting rid, not only of aunts, but of a gang of … I don’t know what to call them, because I don’t know just what they are up to. But I can tell you who I think one of them is: our old friend, Simon.”

The animals exclaimed. “Simon! That scaly-tailed old sneak! Let’s go up and lick ’em; we did it once!”

Charles, the rooster, flew up on a fence post. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried. “Comrades on many a hard-fought field! You have heard the glorious news. Again our ancient enemy raises his foul head; again, the leader of a cruel and vindictive horde of savage barbarians, he menaces the peace that like a soft blanket broods over the hills of Bean. Rise, animals, in your might; let the old battle cry resound: Claws and teeth, comrades; claws and teeth!—Ouch!” he yelled suddenly, as his wife, Henrietta, seized him by the tailfeathers and pulled him down.

“You and your brooding blanket!” she said sarcastically. “You and your foul head! Now you rise in your might and go on back to the henhouse, so we can hear what Freddy has to say.”

So then Freddy told them all that had happened at Lakeside. Or perhaps not quite all. For if he didn’t tell how he and Mr. Camphor had fallen over each other running away from the ghost, or how silly he had looked spinning over the lake like a fly on a windowpane, I don’t know why you should blame him. You wouldn’t have told anybody either.

The animals were disturbed to hear that Simon had probably turned up again. But as Freddy pointed out, there was nothing they could do until he had more facts to give them. He would continue his investigations; they could be ready, and when he needed their help he would send for them. “In the meantime,” he said, “I’d better go see that chipmunk who had some information about Simon. Where’d you say he lived, Jinx?”

“Macy’s, down on the flats,” said the cat. “There’s a little pond, used to be an ice pond.”

“Sure, sure; I know the place,” said Freddy impatiently.

“You sure you can find it? The chipmunk says there’s a little clump of birches on the west side …”

“I told you I knew the place,” Freddy said. “Pooh, I could find my way there with my eyes shut.”

The cat grinned. “Oh, yeah? Want to bet on it?”

Freddy put on his Great Detective expression, which consisted of pressing his mouth very tightly together and squinting up his eyes so that he looked suspicious and determined at the same time. He had practiced this expression before the looking glass until it was now almost perfect, and strangers were often quite terrified by it. “Certainly not!” he snapped. “Too busy for such foolishness!”

But Jinx just laughed. “You kill me, pig,” he said. “Look, smooth out that face before it sets that way and I’ll make a deal with you. You know that red velvet cushion I sleep on? It’s just the thing to put in your big chair, now that it’s busted and the springs stick into you. If you can find that pond, blindfolded, you can have the cushion.”

“Look, Jinx,” Freddy began, “I haven’t time …”

“A nice, soft, thick, red velvet cushion,” said Jinx. “With that in your chair, you can get your nose up over the edge of the table, instead of sitting practically on the floor and reaching up over your head to use the typewriter. As far as saving time goes, you’re so smart you can get there just as quick with a blindfold on as without. Of course if you don’t find the pond …”

Freddy made up his mind. “I’ll find it all right. You don’t need to think up a forfeit for me to pay.”

“Yeah,” said the cat. “You’re a sly one. I thought you’d try that. No, if you don’t find the pond, then you’ll have to—let’s see—you’ll have to take me to the movies in Centerboro and buy me a soda afterwards.”

And after thinking it over for a minute, Freddy agreed.