The other boys looked. Sure enough they saw distinctly the marks of
the well known Scout shoes, sold even in distant Warsaw.

"Let's follow them up," said another boy, leading the way.

It was something to do and they bent to the chase like young hounds on
a fresh fox trail. Rather to their disappointment, the tracks did not
double or disappear here and there. They led directly down the street.
As they followed, a faint cry sounded. The boys stopped, startled.

"What's that?" whispered one.

The cry was repeated. "Someone in trouble," cried the first boy,
hurrying forward.

The boy behind took a quick step, and caught him by the arm.

"Stop!" he whispered. "Don't go on! That's not a human voice."

Frozen in attitudes of astonishment, the boys stood listening with all
their might.

"Pshaw!" said the tall boy, Thaddeus, in his rapid Polish. "What think
you would cry like that -- spirits?" He laughed.

"It might be," said the second lad doggedly. "There are spirits, of
course; and when souls are set free in the violence of war they say
they ever return to haunt the scene of their passing."