ny had completed his meager description.

“A galloping ghost.” Johnny pronounced the words slowly as Howe, now quite recovered, stood up beside him, then scowled. “What do you make of that?”

“Not a thing,” Howe answered bluntly. “But, after all, the real question is, is this ghost for us or against us?”

“Do ghosts always take sides?”

“Oh, inevitably!” Howe laughed a short cackling laugh that went far toward relieving the tension of the moment.

“Come!” he said. “Let’s see what Drew has been doing. He—

“Watch out! Duck!” Seizing Johnny’s arm with a vice-like grip, he dragged him down.

Not an instant too soon. There came the crack of a pistol, followed by the dull thwack of a bullet against the side of the car just over their heads. And after that a cold, dead silence.

CHAPTER V
RED WINS TO LOSE

Drew Lane, Tom Howe’s team mate, had not seen the Galloping Ghost. In truth it was some distance from the sleeping car to the river bank. After picking his way across the tracks, flashing his light this way and that in search of clues—some article dropped in hasty flight, a broken match, a cigaret thrown away—he came at last to a narrow stretch of rock-strewn, cinder-embedded ground.

Here his mood changed. Snapping off his light, he thrust one hand deep in his coat pocket and sauntered forward like some college youth taking the air.

This was Drew Lane’s favorite pose. With his faultless derby, his spotless suit of sea-green and his natty tie, he carried it off well. Many a tough egg had called him a “fresh college kid,” only to find himself the ne