Bill eagerly.
"This demonstration will be almost as interesting to you as it is to us,
and you can help us out. We can get what little power we need from any
power plant. But we want a shop most of all--a loft or attic with room
enough to work in. We're going to get all the tools we need--"

"No. I'll get 'em fer you an' you kin have all that there room over the
garage." (The old gentleman pronounced this word as though it rhymed
with carriage.) "An' anything else you're a mind to have you kin have.
Some old junk up there, I reckon," he went on. "You kin throw it out, er
make use of it. An' now, let's see what you kin do!"

The boys were eager to acknowledge this liberal offer, and they
expressed themselves in no measured terms. They would do better than
make one receiver; they would make two and one would be installed in Mr.
Hooper's library,--but of this they said nothing at first. Get busy they
did, with a zeal and energy that overmatched even that given the power
plant. That afternoon they moved into the new shop and were delighted
with its wide space and abundant light. The next day they went to the
city for tools and materials. Two days later a lathe, a grinder and a
boring machine, driven by a small electric motor wired from the Hooper
generator were fully installed, together with a workbench, vises, a
complete tool box and a drawing board, with its instruments. No young
laborers in the vineyard of electrical fruitage could ask for more.

"Isn't it dandy, Gus?" Bill exclaimed, surveying the place and the
result of their labors in preparation. "If we can't do things here, it's
only our fault. Now, then--"

"It is fine," said Gus, "and we're in luck, but somehow, I think we must
be on our guard. I can't get my mind off ghosts and the damage over
yonder. I'm going to take a sneak around there to-night again, along
around midnight and a little after. I did last night; didn't tell you,
for you had your mind all on this. George was on duty, challenged me,
but I've got a hunch that he knows something he doesn't want to worry us
about and thinks he can cope with."

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
be