The Photo-Play Journal (May 1916-Apr 1917)

the photoplay journal por December, 19 16. page 27 Roberts climbed out of the carriage with an anticipatory smile. "You're all wrong, Hawkins. What a blooming good place to live in !" CHAPTER II The Home of the Ghost The Holly Branch Tavern was a delight to the novelist's heart. Old Si Squiggins produced, from a mysterious cache, a dusty, cob-webbed bottle which had been filled with the fermented juice of the grape from his father's vines, in the days before even the hoop-skirt had been invented for the entanglement of tiny feminine feet and the bewilderment of fluttering masculine hearts ! And a sauce (invented by his mother, whose cunning combinations of esculents had made the Holly Branch Tavern a snug harbor for the cognoscenti of whaling circles in the good old days and jovial old nights), had been liberally anointed upon some wonderful fish just brought in from the sea. Vegetables — fresh from a kitchen garden of astonishing fertility — served in dishes which Hawkins christened "canary bird bath tubs" adorned the board, and were so delicious that even the unhappy valet forgot, for the nonce, the savory viands of Merrie England. It was a feast for the Olympians, and old Si's guests did justice to it with a gusto which brought the sparkle of pride to his pale blue eyes. "Wall, sir, I s'pose it's your bed time — nearly nine o'clock," said the old tavern-keeper. Roberts restrained his smile, as he replied : "Oh, I sometimes stay up later than this in New York. Don't I, Hawkins?" The valet awakened with a start, answering sleepily : "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I beg pardon, sir !" "I'm going out for a walk — perhaps to that haunted house," Roberts announced. "Oh, sir, I wouldn't, sir. You don't know what a ghost might do, sir." Roberts smiled as he lit his pipe, and donning his cap, started out to tour the twining streets of the village. All was quiet, except for the occasional bark of a sleepless watchdog. It was a long walk to the "haunted" house. The old dwelling sat upon an eminence from which he could survey the little harbor. On the bosom of the waters he saw the twinkling port and starboard lights of his own yacht as it swung about with the ebbing tide. The moon, in the first half, illumined the dilapidated building in ghostly fashion. And yet there was not a sound earthly or supernatural, emanating from behind the heavily boarded windows and doors. He sat down on the porch and looked afar into the grays of the moonlit seascape. Not a thought of value would come to his aid, despite his systematic mental acrobatics. "The haunted house," he murmured. "I came all this way to reach a haunted house and I have been bearing one around with me — my own heart is a haunted house !" A flood of miserable thoughts brought contracted brows and clenched hands as he rose nervously to pace up and down wide porch. How wretched it seemed now — and yet what escape could there be. His fiancee, Beatrice Montford, beautiful, aristocratic and popular as few New York girls can be, was waiting for his return to the glittering social life of the city. His solitary departure on the "Sea Gull" had been the cause of their most recent quarrel — one among dozens of irritating disagreements which had shattered his nerves, interfered with his creative work and veritably driven him to distraction. "I wonder if we will be happy, after all," he asked himself, for the thousandth and first time. "These the all quarrels, her jealousy, and this never ending society?" For hours he maintained his curious watch. At last, his tobacco pouch exhausted, he turned impatiently and nervously to retrace his steps. Finally he reached the tavern, sleepless and irritable. And then, strangely dissatisfied with fate, which others believed so kind to him, Ronald Roberts lost himself in unhappy dreams, in which the dark-haired visage of Beatrice Montford appeared weirdly, wretchedly. It was ten o'clock before Hawkins apologetically awakened him. "Breakfast is ready, sir," began Hawkins. Ronald Roberts sprang out of bed, and peered through the mullioned window at the symphony of landscape outside. After a hearty breakfast Roberts made another visit to the building of his interest, hoping to find some clues of old romance which might light the fires of his inspiration. Within was a pathetic scene of desolation. Everything stood just as it had been left by the former owner. Roberts wandered around from room to room, disturbed only by the scurrying of rats. Within an hour he was temporary owner of the house, for he had paid the shrewd old agent of the estate the price demanded without the traditional bickering over terms. Hawkins had struggled with more luggage sent in from the yacht, and the novelist was ensconced in the old home, happy with his new toy, and determined that his pen should produce the sought-for story. Sitting on an old table, the novelist busied himself with a weapon and some oily rags. Hawkins spread out the viands for cooking upon the other table, not far from the door. Just then an unmistakable scraping sound came to their ears. Hawkins' eyes opened timidly as he whirled about. "Lord, sir ! Look hat that table ! It's moving, sir!" The table, covered with bread, vegetables, fish and some fruit, was indeed gliding toward the open door, its corner already disappearing behind the portal. Roberts ran toward the door as Hawkins staggered weakly against a chair. The novelist swung the door aside and peered into the darker dining-room beyond. Not an object was stirring, except one of the scurrying rats. He pushed past the table, into the other room, to examine his ground more thoroughly. The rat could assuredly not have dragged the heavy piece of furniture. Up the broad stairway he dashed, his footsteps being the only sound audible. Along the upper corridor he raced, peering into each of the bed chambers, but his search was fruitless. As he returned to the kitchen he found Hawkins mopping the cold perspiration from an agonized brow. "Hit must have been the ghost, sir !" exclaimed the valet. "Hawkins, you have been drinking again, and you moved that table yourself, to frighten me," he replied. Then he proceeded with the gun cleaning with a more business-like attention to his task. "As for a ghost Hawkins — ghosts do not bloom well in lead showers. Just remember that." CHAPTER III The Ghost Hunt After a luncheon, in which Hawkins' professional pride was sufficiently stimulated to forget the ghostly visitation, in his effort to outvie the cookery of old Si Squiggins, Roberts decided to take his afternoon dip in the surf. The property of the old house bordered an inviting edge of the beach. Huge boulders, tossed, it seemed, to the shore by some titantic craftsman of by-gone aeons, formed a natural bulkhead against the battering blows of the heavy surf. Roberts' dark eyes sparkled appreciatively as he walked down toward the mossy crags. He swung his bathing suit idly in his hand. It was still damp from a short swim taken from the yacht the day before. He spread the suit upon a convenient shrub, retracing his steps through the trees to the house. Here he found another provoking delay — the humidity had rusted the delicate mechanism of his camera shutter. The application of a little oil and some unliterary but heartfelt profanity to the diaphragm persuaded it to work once more. Then he returned to the shore. The bathing suit had disappeared ! "Hawkins !" he cried. "Hawkins ! What did you do with that suit, you blithering idiot!" The valet came running. "Hi never saw it, sir, hupon me word, sir." They searched about the grounds vainly, thinking that perhaps a fitful breeze had carried it away. After a few irritating minutes Roberts returned to the same shrub, sternly berating his man. "Look, sir ! There it is ! Hon the bush, sir ! Hisn't that bally odd?" shouted Hawkins. Roberts snatched the garment and looked searchingly at his servant. "You didn't put it here?" "My word, sir, no!" and >■, ■■*;, The "Ghost" took a little swim after "stealing" the author's bathing-suit