n. When the railroad
superseded that primitive mode of travel, the lumbering vehicle was
rolled in the barn, and there it stayed. The stage-driver, after
prophesying the immediate downfall of the nation, died of grief and
apoplexy, and the old coach followed in his wake as fast as could
by quietly dropping to pieces. The barn had the reputation of being
haunted, and I think we all kept very close together when we found
ourselves standing in the black shadow cast by the tall gable. Here,
in a low voice, Jack Harris laid bare his plan, which was to burn the
ancient stage-coach.

"The old trundle-cart isn't worth twenty-five cents," said Jack Harris,
"and Ezra Wingate ought to thank us for getting the rubbish out of the
way. But if any fellow here doesn't want to have a hand in it, let him
cut and run, and keep a quiet tongue in his head ever after."

With this he pulled out the staples that held the lock, and the big barn
door swung slowly open. The interior of the stable was pitch-dark, of
course. As we made a movement to enter, a sudden scrambling, and the
sound of heavy bodies leaping in all directions, caused us to start back
in terror.

"Rats!" cried Phil Adams.

"Bats!" exclaimed Harry Blake.

"Cats!" suggested Jack Harris. "Who's afraid?"

Well, the truth is, we were all afraid; and if the pole of the stage had
not been lying close to the threshold, I don't believe anything on earth
would have induced us to cross it. We seized hold of the pole-straps
and succeeded with great trouble in dragging the coach out. The two fore
wheels had rusted to the axle-tree, and refused to revolve. It was the
merest skeleton of a coach. The cushions had long since been removed,
and the leather hangings, where they had not crumbled away, dangled in
shreds from the worm-eaten frame. A load of ghosts and a span of phantom
horses to drag them would have made the ghastly thing complete.

Luckily for our undertaking, the stable stood at the top of a very steep
hill. With three boys to push behind, and two in front to steer, we
started the old coach on its last trip with little or no difficulty.
Our speed increased every moment, and, the fore wheels becoming unlocked
as we arrived at the foot of the declivity, we charged upon the crowd
like a regiment of cavalry, scattering the people right and left. Before
reaching the bonfire, to which someone had added several bushels of
shavings, Jack Harris and Phil Adams, who were steering, d