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.”
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