y had picked
up, and was trying to be surreptitious about it. Anyone would be curious
about someone carrying a moldy bag, but why try to conceal that
curiosity? On impulse, Rick said, "There's a trash can, Scotty. Throw
the bag away and let's go." To the peddler, he added, "We're doing our
bit to keep the place clean."

"Good thing to do," the man admitted.

The boys got in the car. Rick turned it around and headed for town. The
rear-view mirror told him that the Frostola man watched them until the
trees hid them from view.

Rick said thoughtfully, "If you were anxious to make your fortune
selling Frostola, where would you go to do it?"

Scotty grinned. "My thought exactly. I'd go where there are people. I'd
either go up streets ringing my bell, or I'd park at an intersection
where cars could stop. I wouldn't go to a deserted picnic ground--if I
knew it was deserted."

"If he didn't know, he's a stranger here. Could he be a new man?"

Scotty shook his head. "A new man wouldn't know the way out here, and if
he asked, he'd be told that people are staying away because of the
ghost."

"True. Your thoughts are as lucid as Costin's Creek, ol' buddy. Also, he
is not the typical ice-cream salesman, and he's not from around here.
He's a little old for riding a scooter cart, and the look on his face
and the way he carries himself are wrong. He doesn't fit the part.
Besides, his speech isn't local. He's no more a Virginian than you are."

"He sounds more like a Yankee," Scotty agreed.

Rick sighed. "Well, we've got something, although I don't know what.
Cement bags where there is no construction and an ice-cream man who
doesn't fit the part. What do you make out of that?"

Scotty chuckled. "Simple. The Frostola man is building a secret
ice-cream stand. A modern one, out of poured concrete walls. He's not
building it where anyone can see it, because he doesn't want to be
bothered by customers."

Rick grinned. "Okay, Hawkshaw. That's enough deduction for one morning.
Take a look at that sky. Have you heard a weather report lately?"

Scotty glanced upward to where mare's-tails were making streaks across
the sky. "Looks like a storm brewing. Why not turn on the radio?"

Rick did so, but there was only music from a nearby station,
interspersed with local commercials. Before there was a chance to get a
weather report they were rolling into town.

Lansdale was too small even to be called a "whistle stop," because no
tra