“Do you see that house?”

“You mean that low, old house on the corner of the road?”

“Yes.”

“What of it?”

“Well, that’s one of the oldest houses in this part of the country.”

“It looks the part. How old is it?”

“It’s at least one hundred and seventy-five years old.”

“It’s old enough to look better, then. Is that one of the houses that Washington slept in?”

“I guess so.”

“It must be, from the stories you have told me since I have been here. How old was Washington, anyway, when he died?”

“He was in his sixty-eighth year.”

“I think there’s some mistake about that.”

“No, sir. Those are the correct figures. He was born in 1732 and he died in 1799.”

“I’m not going to dispute you, George. I’ll take your word for it, but it always seemed to me that Washington’s age must have been a good deal greater than the histories say it was.”

“Why?”

“Because he slept in so many houses. I have figured it up and if he had spent about a quarter of an hour in every one of the houses that you say he slept in, it will figure out that he was a good deal more than sixty-seven years old. Indeed, I have begun to think that Methuselah was an infant-in-arms compared with George Washington, if ten per cent of the stories you have been telling us are true. By the way, how old was Methuselah, anyway?”

“‘And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred and sixty and nine years and he died.’”

“Well, poor old man, I should have thought he would have been ready to die. Just think of it, having to live in this world almost a thousand years! I wonder how his hearing was and if he could see straight. I have always thought that no matter how long I might live I should want people to feel when I came to die that I had a little more of a record than born in 1899 and died some time in the future.”

“That’s the best thing some men ever did.”

“What?”

“Why, to die. They’d give up their places to others who could fill them better.”

“What’s all that got to do with that old house?”

“Nothing. I didn’t start to talk about Methuselah.”

“That’s all right, but what about this house?”

“It’s haunted.”

A hearty laugh went up from the three boys who were the companions of George Sanders in his automobile.

The conversation which has been recorded had been carried on by George Sanders and his friend Fred Button. These two boys, together with John Clemens and Grant Jones, were close friends and schoolmates. Although they were nearly of the same age they were markedly different in their appearance. Fred, who was the pygmy of the party, was a little, round-faced, bright-eyed fellow, who was able to say quick and keen things and who was the inspiration of most of the pranks of which the band was guilty.

John Clemens was perhaps Fred’s closest friend. He was six feet three inches tall, but he did not weigh very much more than the shorter Fred, who made up in breadth what he lacked in length.

Grant Jones, the most quiet and thoughtful member of the party, seldom entered into the wordy contests, although he took special delight in the pranks of his comrades.

George Washington Sanders was the owner of the automobile in which the four boys were riding.

The day was one of the most beautiful of early summer. In Northern New Jersey, not far from the border of New York State, George’s father had an extensive farm. To this place from their early childhood the four friends had been accustomed to come from the great city and the many good times they had enjoyed there seemed to increase in number and quality with every succeeding summer.

Not all their summers had been passed on the farm, however. There had been frequent trips, which the boys had taken to different parts of their own land and others. A few years before this time they had been accompanied by the father or uncle of one of the boys, who had acted as guardian and guide. On these various trips they had not only had many enjoyable times, but also many stirring experiences. Some of these adventures have already been told in other stories of this series.

Among themselves the boys frequently referred to the quartet as the Go Ahead boys. They had selected this name as one that was most expressive of their purposes. They had found it in the famous motto of Davy Crockett, who, years ago, was himself familiarly known as “Go Ahead” Crockett.

On the day when this story opens they were on their way to George’s farm. They had approached within a mile of their destination when their host had called their attention to the low building which commonly was referred to as the Meeker House. It was an unpretentious structure, containing a story and a half, with a lean-to or addition, that looked much as if it had been built as an afterthought, or as a postscript is added to a letter.

The sides of the building were weather-beaten and it was manifest that it had been long since any one had dwelt in the house.

“It seems to me, George,” spoke up Fred, “that you’re finding new historical places around the farm every summer. Let me see, what was it last summer?”

“You are doing better, Fred,” laughed George. “You remember now that there was a last summer. I have sometimes been afraid you wouldn’t remember even that much, but for your sake I’ll tell you that last summer I told you the story of the young fellow who was captured in Ramapo Pass. He was Washington’s messenger, you will remember, although he did not know it at the time.”

“I do recall now,” said Fred pompously, “some information you were kind enough to dole out to us. It seems to me that you told me that this young fellow was sent purposely by Washington down through the Ramapo Valley so that he would be captured by the British and taken to New York. If I’m correct he had a letter sewed inside the lining of his coat and this letter contained instructions for General Heath, who was at Morristown, to join him, that is Washington and not the boy, in taking New York.”

“That’s right. It all comes back to me, too,” joined in Grant. “This fellow was taken to New York and he felt pretty mad at Washington. He could have found his way across the country all right, he thought, and would have given the message to General Heath without any trouble, but Washington insisted upon his going through to Ramapo Valley and of course he was caught. Poor chap, he didn’t know that that was the very thing Washington was planning to do. He wanted him caught so that his letter would be found and Clinton wouldn’t dare leave New York.”

“What did Clinton want to leave New York for?” broke in John. “I can’t understand why anybody would want to leave little, old New York. That’s the best town on the globe.”

“He wanted to take his army south to help Cornwallis, who was bottled up on the Yorktown peninsula. That was the trick that Washington played on him. He kept Clinton here, and when at last Clinton got his eyes opened, he found out that Washington’s army was already down across the Delaware and headed for Chesapeake Bay.”

“Did he arrive in time?” inquired Fred innocently.

“For further and detailed information I refer you to any primary history of the United States,” said Grant laughingly. “That’s one of the things no American boy ought to have to learn. He ought to know it before he begins.”

“What about this house back here?” said Fred. “You seem to point it out as if you thought there was something peculiar about it.”

“I told you that it’s haunted.”

Again the boys laughed heartily as Grant said, “Anybody would think to hear you talk, George, that you belonged back in the days when they hanged witches.”

“You mean burned,” spoke up Fred promptly.

“No, I don’t mean ‘burned’ the witches, I mean ‘hanged,’” retorted Grant. “There are some ignorant people who sometimes talk about the people of the Salem Colony burning witches, but they didn’t burn them—they hanged them.”

“Pardon me,” said Fred demurely. “I stand corrected.”

“But there really is something queer about this house,” said George. “I know, for I’ve been there.”

The boys all looked back at the little building, which now was far behind them. The quiet that rested upon it seemed like that of a cemetery. It plainly belonged to another generation.

“What do you mean by its being haunted!” demanded Fred, at last breaking in upon the silence.

“I’m telling you what the common report is,” said George, somewhat testily. “Everybody says it is haunted.”

“But you said you yourself knew it was.”

“No, I didn’t. I said there was something peculiar about it.”

“Go on with your story, George,” called John. “Don’t keep us in this burning suspense. What was it?”

“Why, I went over there one day,” explained George, somewhat reluctantly. “It was just at sunset and a terrible thunder shower had come up and I ran to the old Meeker House to get in out of the rain.”

“When did you learn to do that?” broke in Fred.

“I didn’t have to learn,” declared George. “At all events I got inside the house and waited for the storm to pass. But it didn’t pass. When it struck the hills over yonder it was turned back by colder currents of air, so I got the storm coming and going. The first thing I knew the old place was dark and then—”

“And then what?” demanded Grant.

“And then,—things began to happen.”

“What happened?” inquired Grant. “Don’t keep us in this terrible suspense.”

“Well, there wasn’t a breath of air stirring,” explained George, “but the window shutters began to slam a half a dozen times and I heard groans that seemed to come up from the cellar and I was almost sure that once I heard something or somebody call my name.”

“That’s a good one,” laughed John, who in spite of his flippant manner was strongly moved by the story of his friend. “You’re always expecting somebody to call you by name whether they know you or not.”

“Oh, but they know of him,” suggested Fred. “I know of a good many people that I don’t know by sight; for example, there’s the President.”

“Keep still, fellows,” ordered Grant, “and let George tell his story. He was as far as the slamming of the shutters and the groans that came from the cellar and the call which some of the evil spirits made on him by name. Go on, George,” he added, turning to his friend, “tell us what happened next.”