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