The Ghost of Popcorn Hill by Betty Ren Wright Page A

view every morning. From the top of Popcorn Hill you could see for miles. Fruit trees, with blossoms that looked like popcorn, dotted the hillside. Beyond were meadows and a creek, and there were woods everywhere. Maybe the cabin wasn’t much of a house, but Martin knew he’d rather live there than anywhere else in the world.
    When he went back inside, his father was sitting at the round table. “Eat your breakfast, guys,” he said. “We’ve got a job to do.” He winked at Peter, and Peter blinked back.
    Martin poured milk on his oatmeal and added some cinnamon. He wasn’t hungry, but he knew he had to eat or his mother would think he was sick. There was so much to think about. The dog—the big dog. And the ghostly laughter they had heard last night. Should he tell his parents about that? He wanted to, but his father would probably make a joke about it, and his mother would think it was a burglar.
    It wasn’t a burglar , he assured her silently. Burglars don’t laugh like that. Nothing laughs like that .
    â€œMartin, you look worried,” his father said. “Has the President of the United States been pestering you for advice again?”
    Martin tried to smile. “Something weird happened last night,” he mumbled. “We heard a man laughing.”
    His father took a sip of coffee. “Me,” he said. “I laugh a lot. It’s better than crying.”
    â€œIt wasn’t you, Daddy,” Peter said. “This was really scary.”
    â€œOh, dear, I hope it wasn’t burglars!” Mrs. Tracy exclaimed. “I’ve been afraid of this. Living way out here, so far from everybody.…”
    Mr. Tracy pushed back his chair. “It wasn’t burglars. We don’t have anything worth stealing,” he said. “Anyway, after today you won’t have to give burglars a thought. We’ll have a dog to protect us.” He grinned at Martin and Peter. “Ready to go? Last one in the truck is a leadfoot.”
    Martin was the last one in the truck, because he didn’t even run. He was too busy wishing he hadn’t mentioned that mysterious Ho-ho-ho . He didn’t want his mother to think there was anything bad about living on Popcorn Hill. He wanted to live there forever.

CHAPTER THREE
    Rosie
    When they parked in front of the Humane Society, Martin felt as if it were Christmas and his birthday rolled into one. Too excited to talk, he and Peter followed their father into the office and then through another door. Big barks and little ones greeted them.
    â€œRight this way,” the caretaker said. “The dogs are on this aisle, and the cats are on the next one.”
    â€œWe want a dog,” Peter said. “A great big one.”
    Mr. Tracy shook his head. “Not a big one,” he said firmly. “We just want a nice dog that’ll be fun to have around the house.”
    â€œGotcha,” the caretaker said. He pointed at a tiny gray dog with long ears and a short, stand-up tail. “There’s a lively little guy.”
    The gray dog yipped and jumped against the wire netting. Martin bit his lip. He felt sorry for the little dog, but he didn’t want to take him home.
    â€œI think maybe he’s a bit too small,” Mr. Tracy said. “What do you think, boys?”
    Martin nodded. Peter had already moved to the next pen. His eyes were as round as marbles.
    â€œDaddy, here he is!” he shouted. “Here’s our dog!”
    They gathered behind Peter and stared into the cage. A silver-coated German shepherd stared back at them.
    â€œOh, wow,” Martin breathed. “He’s perfect.” He could picture the huge dog pulling their wagon and walking with them to school. Everyone would want to pet him, but they wouldn’t dare until Martin or Peter said it was all right.
    â€œHe’s not perfect,” Mr. Tracy said. “And don’t try to gang up on me, because