“About two miles this side of Brill.”

“Then we’ll pass it, eh?” came from Sam.

“Well, not exactly.  It’s up a bit on a side road.  But you can see the buildings—­very nice, too—­although not so big as those up to Brill.  I’ll point ’em out to you when we get there.”

“Do you know any of the fellows at Brill?” questioned Tom, nudging Sam in the ribs as he spoke.

“A few.  Minnie met some of ’em at the baseball and football games, and once in a while one of ’em stops at our house.  But we are most too far away to see much of ’em.”

Presently the carriage passed through a small village which the boys were told was called Rushville.

“I don’t know why they call it that,” said Mr. Sanderson with a chuckle.  “Ain’t no rushes growing around here, and there ain’t no rush either; it’s as dead as a salted mackerel,” and he chuckled again.  “But there’s one thing here worth knowing about,” he added suddenly.

“What’s that?” asked Dick.

“The Jamison place—­it’s haunted.”

“Haunted!” cried Tom.  “What, a house?”

“Yes, a big, old-fashioned house, set in a lot of trees.  It ain’t been occupied for years, and the folks say it’s haunted, and nobody goes near it.”

“We’ll have to inspect it some day,” said Sam promptly.

“What—­you?” cried the fat farmer.

“Sure.”

“Ain’t you scared?”

“No,” answered the youngest Rover.  “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Well, they say it’s worth a man’s life to go in that house, especially after dark.”

“I think I’d risk it.”

“So would I,” added Tom.

“We’ll pay the haunted house a visit some day when there is no session at the college,” said Dick “It will give us something to do.”

“Hum!” mused the farmer.  “Well, if you do it you’ve got backbone, that’s all I’ve got to say.  The folks around here won’t go near that Jamison place nohow.”

The road now became hilly, with many twists and turns, and the farmer had to give his entire attention to his team.  The carriage bounced up and down and once Sam came close to being pitched out.

“Say, this is fierce!” he cried.  “How much more of it?”

“Not more’n a quarter of a mile,” answered Mr. Sanderson.  “It is kinder rough, ain’t it?  The roadmaster ought to have it fixed.  Some of the bumps is pretty bad.”

There was one more small hill to cross, and then they came to a level stretch.  Here the horses made good time and the farmer “let them out” in a fashion that pleased the boys very much.

“A fine team and no mistake,” said Dick, and this pleased Mr. Sanderson very much, for he was proud of but two things—­his daughter Minnie and his horses.

“There is Hope Seminary,” said Mr. Sanderson presently and pointed to a group of buildings set in among some large trees.  “That’s a good school, I’ve been thinking of sending my daughter there, only it’s a pretty long drive, and I need her at home.  You see,” he explained, “Minnie keeps house for me—­has ever since my wife died, three years ago.”