believe, and if I were told I could see one by going
anywhere, no matter how grewsome the spook was, I could not resist
going."

"You ought to have lived where I came from," observed Pullen, looking
curiously at his comrade; "for about twenty miles from my home is an
island known as 'The Pocket,' that is fairly swarming with ghosts."

"Tell me about it," said Manson, suddenly interested.

"Well, it is a long yarn," replied Pullen, "but, from your make-up, the
island is just such a spot as you would enjoy visiting. As I told you
the other night, I was born and brought up on an island off the coast of
Maine, and when I was quite a lad I first heard about this island, and
that no one ever went there because it was haunted. I wasn't old enough
to understand what being haunted meant, but later on I did. They used to
tell about it being a hiding-place for smugglers before I was born, and
that a murder had been committed there and that some one in a fishing
boat had seen a man fully ten feet tall, standing on a cliff on it, one
night. Dad, who was a sea captain, used to laugh at all this, and yet
almost everybody believed there was some mystery connected with it.
Another thing, I guess, helped give it a bad name was the fact that a
ship was wrecked on it once, and no one discovered it until long after,
and then they found four or five skeletons among the rocks. Another
queer thing about this island that is really a fact is, that any time,
day or night, you can hear a strange, bellowing sound like that of a mad
bull, coming from somewhere on it. When there is a storm you can hear it
for miles away. The sound can't be located anywhere, and yet you can
hear it all the time. If you are one side, it seems to come from the
other, and go around to that side and it is back where you came from.
Inside the island is a circular pocket or walled-in harbor, like the
crater of a volcano, that is entered through a narrow passage between
two cliffs. Altogether it's a curious place, but as for ghosts--well,
I've been there many a time and never saw one yet. But then, I do not
believe in spooks, and perhaps that accounts for it. It's like the
believers in spiritualism, that can readily see their dead ancestors'
faces peering out of a cabinet, and all that sort of bosh, but I never
could. I'll bet," with a laugh, "that you could go to Pocket Island and
see ghosts by the dozen."

"I would like to go there," replied Manson quietly, "and if we e