The Go Ahead Boys and the Mysterious Old House

Title: The Go Ahead Boys and the Mysterious Old House

Author: Ross Kay

Release date: April 25, 2011 [eBook #35964] Most recently updated: June 25, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35964

Credits: E-text prepared by Roger Frank, Juliet Sutherland, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)

E-text prepared by Roger Frank, Juliet Sutherland, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)

THE GO AHEAD BOYS AND THE MYSTERIOUS OLD HOUSE

THE GO AHEAD BOYS AND THE MYSTERIOUS OLD HOUSE

BY

ROSS KAY

Author of “The Search for the Spy,” “The Air Scout,” “Dodging the North Sea Mines,” “With Joffre on the Battle Line,” “The Go Ahead Boys on Smugglers’ Island,” “The Go Ahead Boys and the Treasure Cave,” etc., etc.

Copyright, 1916,

by

BARSE & HOPKINS

PREFACE

In almost every rural community in the older parts of our country there is a house which some of the country folk have believed to be “haunted.” As a rule this house is old and perhaps has fallen into partial decay. The children passing on the country road move to the opposite side when they draw near the building. Stories are current of scenes which have been witnessed and sounds heard in the vacant dwelling. Perhaps even the older people have not altogether outgrown their feeling of timidity when they are near it. How baseless all such stories are and how easily most of the unusual sights and sounds can be accounted for is of course clearly understood. In this story I have tried to interest my young readers in the attempts of four normal, go-ahead boys to solve the mysteries connected with a venerable house near the home of one of them, which was shunned by many of the simple country people. I have endeavored to avoid all sensationalism and yet to interest the boys and girls in a stirring story of the experiences of my heroes. I am not without

hope that the final solution of the mystery of the old Meeker House may help my young readers a little more courageously to face other problems, perhaps equally mysterious or perplexing, which may be presented to them in other forms. At all events I sincerely hope that the spirit and determination of the Go Ahead Boys will remain in their minds after the story itself shall have long been forgotten.

—Ross Kay

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I—THE OLD MEEKER HOUSE CHAPTER II—COWBOYS AND SKINNERS CHAPTER III—INTO THE HAUNTED HOUSE CHAPTER IV—FLIGHT CHAPTER V—A SURPRISE CHAPTER VI—A PRISONER CHAPTER VII—AN ESCAPE CHAPTER VIII—THE LOST CAR CHAPTER IX—ANOTHER FLIGHT CHAPTER X—THE CAPTURE IN THE PASS CHAPTER XI—THE SEARCH FOR THE MISSING CAR CHAPTER XII—A HASTY DEPARTURE CHAPTER XIII—WORD CONCERNING THE LOST CAR CHAPTER XIV—DISAPPOINTED CHAPTER XV—A FAMOUS SPOT CHAPTER XVI—ANOTHER LOSS CHAPTER XVII—LEFT BEHIND CHAPTER XVIII—THE ARRIVAL CHAPTER XIX—AN INVITATION CHAPTER XX—THE FATHER OF HIS COUNTRY CHAPTER XXI—AN EXPLANATION IN PART CHAPTER XXII—A DARE CHAPTER XXIII—LED BY A MAN CHAPTER XXIV—THE END OF THE HOUSE CHAPTER XXV—A TALK WITH THE TRAMP CHAPTER XXVI—CONCLUSION

THE GO AHEAD BOYS AND THE MYSTERIOUS OLD HOUSE

CHAPTER I—THE OLD MEEKER HOUSE

“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.”

CHAPTER II—COWBOYS AND SKINNERS

“I don’t know just what happened next,” laughed George. “There were two peals of thunder so near together that you could hardly clap your hands between them. When the first one came and I heard that call, I didn’t stand on the order of my departure. When the next clap sounded I was away down the road under that old oak tree.”

All the four boys laughed heartily, even George apparently not being crestfallen by his lack of courage on the night he was describing.

“What is it you call the house?” inquired John.

“The Meeker House.”

“You think it’s haunted?”

“I didn’t say so,” responded George somewhat warmly. “I merely said it is a common report that it is a haunted house. I’m just telling you what happened one night when I ran in there to get out of a storm.”

“Poor old house,” said George thoughtfully, as he looked back at the old building, which still could be seen in the distance. “It makes me think of Uncle Sim. He’s the last leaf on the tree and I guess this is the oldest house in this part of the country.”

Uncle Sim was an aged negro, who for many years had been in the employ of George’s father. His labor was no longer efficient, but his faithful services in the years that were gone had caused Mr. Sanders to provide for the wants of the gray-haired negro. Uncle Sim’s form was bowed with the weight of years which he carried and his trembling limbs showed how much he had suffered from the “mis’ry.” Indeed, the boys had become convinced that there was no topic concerning which the old man loved to talk as he did concerning his various aches and pains.

In spite of his afflictions, however, Uncle Sim was a warm friend of the boys. When they got into mischief Uncle Sim’s face was lifted heavenward so that he was unable to see any of the pranks they committed and therefore was unable to impart any information when he was asked as to his knowledge of their deeds. He was a great favorite of the boys and many of his stories had been familiar to them from their earliest childhood. He knew why the red squirrel and the black hated each other so intensely. He was well informed concerning the perpetual warfare that existed between the dogs and cats on the farm. The call of the bluejays was in a language which Uncle Sim claimed to understand. And although he did not talk back to the chattering jays, nevertheless he strongly believed that they were much more guarded in their conversations when he was nearby.

“You go ask Uncle Sim if the house is haunted,” repeated George. “He’ll tell you what he thinks and you won’t have to wait very long for him to do it, either.”

“Has he never been there?” asked Fred.

“You’d better ask him,” declared George.

“What do you honestly think about it yourself, George?” said Grant more seriously.

“I don’t know just what to think. I haven’t been there since—”

“Since when?” spoke up John encouragingly.

“Since the last time I was there.”

“When was that?”

“That time I was telling you about when I ran in there to get out of the rain.”

“Will you go back there now if we’ll go?” challenged Fred.

“I don’t mind going,” said George, “but I don’t believe we’ll have time this afternoon.” His three companions laughed derisively and so aroused his spirit that he said brusquely, “That’s all right, fellows. I’ll go back there as soon as any one of you will go.”

“All right, sir,” called John. “Stop your car, and we’ll all of us go back to the old Meeker House and find out if what you have been telling us is true.”

“Who ever heard,” broke in Grant, “of ghosts walking around in the daytime? The time for us to go there is when the ghosts are showing up well.”

“You didn’t tell us, George, what the ghosts were?”

“No, I didn’t see them,” replied George.

“What do they say they are?”

“Why, the common report is, that ever since the days of the Revolution the ghosts of the Cowboys and Skinners have made their headquarters in the old Meeker House and whenever there’s a night that is especially dark or there is a particularly heavy storm, then they come there and join in the racket.”

“Cowboys?” demanded John. “What do you mean? Those fellows that drive the cattle out on the plains?”

“No, sir, I mean the men who lived in this part of the country when Washington was fighting for the independence of the United States. But even if they did live here they wouldn’t help him. They said they didn’t belong to either side, but the Cowboys usually took advantage of both sides. When the men were away from home they would go into a house, if they thought there was any money hidden in some old stocking, and they would take the women and hold their feet out over the fire until they told where the money was.”

“What were the Skinners?” inquired John.

“Why, they were about the same kind of men, the only difference being that the Cowboys took the families of the patriots, while the Skinners paid their first attention to the Tory families. I guess it didn’t make much difference to either party as long as they found some money or could get any valuables.”

“What did they put up with such things for?”

“They had to put up with more or less of it,” answered George. “You see most of the men were away from home, fighting in the army. That gave the Cowboys and Skinners their chance and they took it. When the men came back the Cowboys and Skinners were gone.”

“They were something like Georgie Porgie, weren’t they?” laughed Grant. “I don’t know who he was, but when a certain part of the population of which he was afraid began to get busy, Georgie Porgie ran away,—likewise the Cowboys and Skinners.”

“It’s all very interesting,” spoke up Fred, “but I don’t believe there’s such a thing in all the world as a ghost.”

“All right, sir,” said George warmly. “All I want you to do is to talk to Uncle Sim and if he doesn’t convince you that the Meeker House is the special place where all the people that walk around in the night have their headquarters, then I’m mistaken.”

“I’ll ask him just as soon as we get back,” said Fred promptly.