When the railroad superseded that primitive mode of travel, the lumbering vehicle was rolled in the barn, and there it stayed.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.