CHAPTER XVIII


A BIT TRAGIC


"Hold up your hands, nigger!"

The voice was low and sepulchral, but either the ghostly apparition that
uttered the command had slipped up on its vernacular, or it was the
spirit of a bandit. Some demand of the kind was, however, urgently
necessary, for George did not, as formerly, show a desire to flee; his
belligerent attitude suggested fight and he was a husky specimen with a
handy club. Even though he might have suffered a qualm at again
beholding the white apparition in the moonlight, his determination to
dare the spectre was bolstered by the voice and the manner of the
command.

"Ah knows who yo' is an' Ah's gwine hol' yo' up! Yo' ain't no ghos'. Dis
club'll knock de sure 'nough breff out'n yo'; then we'll see."

To Gus, on the hillside above the power plant, it looked very much as
though this threat were going to be carried out. He had been quietly
observing, under the light of a half moon, the ghostly visitation and
even the advent of this individual before the white raiment had been
donned some distance behind the tool house and unknown to the watchful
George. All this had not surprised Gus, but he had been puzzled by the
appearance on the hillside of another figure that kept behind the scant