sane person preferring a humdrum evening at home to this. Then some one
besought Mr. Curtis to tell a story.

"What kind of a story?" asked the scoutmaster, smiling.

"Oh, a ghost story, of course!" urged several voices at once.

Mr. Curtis laughed, stretched out his legs comfortably, thought for a
minute or two, and then in a slow, sepulchral voice began a narrative
which he called "The Headless Horseman of the Harlem." It was a tale
full of creeps and thrills, abounding in dank vaults, weird apparitions,
wild storms, midnight encounters, and various other appropriate
settings and incidents. The boys drew closer still, luxuriating in the
"spookiness" of it all, and then, just as some of the more impressionable
were beginning to cast nervous glances behind them, he ended with a
ridiculous climax that brought forth a shout of laughter and turned
the whole thing into a farce.

A "round-robin" followed, the scoutmaster starting a yarn and leaving it
at an exciting and dramatic moment for the boy on his right to continue.
The absurdity of these continuations kept the crowd in a constant gale
of merriment, and when the round was made they clamored for another.
But it was growing late, so Mr. Curtis substituted a brief anecdote
of scout bravery which had a humorous twist. It was the story, so often
repeated in scout annals, of a little fellow plunging unhesitatingly to
the rescue of a bigger boy who had stumbled beyond his depth in a
swimming-hole. The stronger lad seized his rescuer about the neck and
forced his head below the water. The youngster was unable to free
himself, but with head down and breath almost gone, he hit bottom,
and then, calmly walking along it, he tugged along his struggling
friend until the bank was reached.

"He simply kept his head, you see, and used his brain, which is one of
the best things scouting teaches us," concluded Mr. Curtis. He stood up,
stretching. "Blankets out, fellows," he went on, "and everybody in bed."

Each bunk had been planned to accommodate two occupants, so there was
no crowding or necessity for makeshifts. The fire was piled up with
fresh logs, and though there was a good deal of preliminary laughter and
chattering, the boys were too tired to stay awake long, even under the
novel conditions. Bob Gibson was one of the last to close his eyes. He
had the outside of one of the lower bunks with a full view of the fire,
and though few would have suspected his gruff, matter-of