"Say, if the tenant of this place can go over the snow without leaving a trail, it does look rather ghostly, eh ?" "A ghost wouldn't need warmth," Dick retorted promptly.
"Then what's the answer ?" challenged Dave.
Dick shook his head, but went to one window after the other.
"No one left or entered here by way of the window," Prescott soon announced.

"It struck me that Mr.Fits might have used a window, instead of a door, but if so, there'd be tracks under the windows." "Mr.Fits hasn't been here at all," Dave replied, with a good deal of positiveness.

"When we turned him out into the storm he went somewhere else." "Then how about the ghostly noises, and the embers in the stove ?" Reade wanted to know.
"Ask Dick," prompted Dave.
"I can't tell you," laughed Prescott.

"I guess you'll have to ask Hen Dutcher." "Well, there's no one here but ourselves," Tom went on, as the boys stood staring about the tiny shack.

"As far as finding anything here is concerned we may as well go about our task of wood gathering." "I wish we could get at the bottom of the ghost mystery," muttered Dick wistfully.
"So do I," agreed Reade, "but wishes aren't snow plows, and never were.
Fred Ripley and his cronies would be mean enough to come down here and spoil our rest at night, but they'd never be brave enough to face the long trip through the deep snow." "Well, let's go along and get in the wood," Dick urged.