Free The Ghost Belonged to Me by Richard Peck

see me clearer than I saw him. I did my best to flag him down with my nightshirt, which set me to dancing on the splintery ties. He commenced clanging his bell, which he never does on a late run.
    I was so dazed by the light and recent experiences that I’d have let myself be run down. But the motorman set his brakes, and sparks sprayed out on the right of way. He was stretching out the side window and waving his fist.
    Then he ripped out a couple of oaths. And said if I wanted a ride, I’d have two things to do. Put on some decent clothes and wait at the trolley stop like anybody else.
    â€œThere’s trouble on the line,” I told him, wondering if there was.
    â€œThere’ll be trouble for you for making mischief!”
    I swung up into the car. He said that as I was entering, I had better have a nickel in my nightshirt. This brought a laugh from the passengers who stared at me a little like I had stared at Inez Dumaine. They all looked to be late workers or people who’d been to a show at the Empress Opera House.
    â€œThat is the Armsworth boy,” somebody said, like I was a point of interest they were passing.
    â€œOff, boy, before I drag you up to your house by the ears,” said the motorman, a tough customer with big knuckles.
    I got a good grip on the pole by the coin box. “Listen, there’s something wrong on the trestle—over Snake Creek.” This brought a few of the passengers to their feet. The motorman pushed his cap back and looked put upon.
    â€œIf this is a prank,” he said, “your bottom will burn for it.” But the passengers were crowding up front to see if they could read truth in my face.
    One of them said, “Take it easy to the bridge and then have a look.”
    â€œSiddown, all of you’uns, especially you,” he nodded to me. “You’ll have a free ride and a long sorry walk back if you’re a liar.” Under the circumstances, I figured this was fair enough, though the vision of Inez was fading fast under the glare of this motorman. Here was a man who would never believe anything told to him in a barnloft. The streetcar jerked once and rolled. I looked over my shoulder out the window, across to Blossom Culp’s back porch. Her mother was standing there, with her hair in a braid. She was holding a hurricane lamp up by her face, staring out into the night.
    We hummed along a mile or so to where the town thins out. The motorman kept up a steady conversation with himself about his plans for me. And I tugged at my nightshirt which continually pinched in between the slats on the seat.
    Then we were among the trees and high weeds along the creek bluffs, slowing to a crawl. The headlamp shone straight along the trestle. There were the two gleaming rails and the sheer black drop on either side. I lost considerable heart at the ordinariness of the view and wished I was back in my bed.
    â€œLet’s get out and have a quick look,” said a rider. “Better safe than sorry.” But as he walked to the front of the car, he gave me a look of deep suspicion.
    Another passenger piled out behind him as people will to get in on something. But the motorman stuck to his place like I might make off with the streetcar and go Halloweening with it. We all watched the two of them walk out on the trestle, looking first on one side and then the other. I didn’t see how a couple of middleweights could test a bridge for a trolley car’s weight. But then I figured I might have said too much already. So I composed myself in silence.
    â€œWhat’s that down there by the creek on this side?” yelled out one of the strollers to the other. Everybody in the car surged forward to see those two looking down a drop of maybe a hundred feet. Then they started back to the car, shading their eyes against the headlamp.
    â€œThere’s a fire down there at the base of the bridge support,” said one.
    â€œA tramp’s