The Riddle of Penncroft Farm Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Map

  A Shade in the Window

  Downward Ho the Wagon

  A Custom of Costumes

  Raising the Shade

  Bamboozling Aunt Cass

  The Riddle Song

  Pasty Treats and Hasty Retreats

  A Warning for Washington

  Battlefield Field Trip

  Greene Country Towne/Whitemarsh

  Seeing Sights in Center City

  Not Worth a Continental

  Tempered at the Forge

  Where There’s a Will

  Riddles Revealed

  Afterword

  Glossary*

  Further Reading for Young People

  Selected Bibliography

  About the Author

  Footnotes

  Copyright © 1989 by Dorothea G. Jensen

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  www.hmhco.com

  The song “Geordie” is from One Hundred English Folk Songs © 1916 Theodore Presser Company. Reproduced by permission of the publisher.

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Jensen, Dorothea.

  The riddle of Penncroft Farm /Dorothea Jensen,

  p. cm.—(Great Episodes)

  Summary: Twelve-year-old Lars Olafson’s move to his great-aunt’s farm near Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, brings him friendship with the ghost of an eighteenth-century ancestor who recounts his adventures during the American Revolution, helping Lars adjust to his new home and playing a part in the search for a missing will.

  1. Pennsylvania—History—Revolution, 1775–1783—Juvenile fiction. [1. Pennsylvania—History—Revolution, 1775–1783—Fiction. 2. United States—History—Revolution, 1775–1783—Fiction. 3. Ghosts—Fiction. 4. Moving, Household—Fiction. 5. Great-aunts—Fiction. 6. Valley Forge (Pa.)—Fiction.]

  I. Title. II. Series.

  PZ7.J42997Ri 2001

  [Fic]—dc21 2001016555

  ISBN 978-0-15-216441-6

  eISBN 978-0-547-54430-4

  v1.0114

  To Nathaniel, Adam, Louisa, and David

  Special thanks to Arthur Bell, Janet Frankenfield, Steve Gaskins, Maybelle Hettrick, William Iverson, Martha Johnson, Elizabeth Keeton, Richard Pollak, Jr., Elinor Williams, and Holly Windle.

  1

  A Shade in the Window

  “Penncroft Farm isn’t really haunted, is it? You told me there are no such things as ghosts,” I spluttered.

  “Well, if it makes you feel any better, Lars, I swear that I never saw anything supernatural there,” my mother replied. “It was George who swore the place was loaded with ghosts. But then, my brother always did love to tell tall tales.”

  Mom was sitting in the front seat of our car and I was stuck in the back as usual, so I couldn’t see her face. But I could guess her expression from the sound of her voice. It had the sad tone she always used to talk about Uncle George.

  “I wish you wouldn’t mention ghosts, Sandra,” Dad protested. “Penncroft can be a very spooky spot when the wind moans through that old orchard at night. And you know the house was built before the American Revolution. I’ll bet a lot’s happened there.”

  “I suppose George Washington slept there,” I scoffed.

  “No, I’m afraid not, honey,” Mom said, “much to Aunt Cass’s eternal regret. Of course, he did spend a winter at Valley Forge, which is only a stone’s throw away.”

  I leaned forward eagerly. “Valley Forge? Is that an amusement park like Valley Fair back home?”

  “Lars! Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Valley Forge! Didn’t you study the Revolutionary War in school?” Mom exclaimed.

  “Give me a break! We’ve been doing Minnesota history—you know, explorers like Zebulon Pike. Geez, I hope I don’t have to learn a bunch of stuff about Pennsylvania. It’s not fair having to learn two state histories just because I have to move.”

  Dad humphed. “You’ll change your mind when we get into Philadelphia and see the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall. Too bad we don’t have time today.”

  “Don’t care if I ever see ’em,” I muttered.

  “He’s still upset about moving, Erik,” said Mom.

  Dad’s voice deepened. “I know it’s tough, but he’ll get over it once he makes some new friends and meets your aunt Cass.”

  Mom twisted around to look at me, although it was getting too dark to see much of anything. “When George and I spent summers at Penncroft Farm, he used to play tricks on Aunt Cass. Cass called it bamboozling—that’s one of her favorite words. It means fooling someone.”

  “What did she do to get back at him?” I asked.

  Mom chuckled. “Among other things, she apple-pied his bed. That’s the old-fashioned name for short sheeting—probably comes from folding the sheet in a triangle like a piece of pie.”

  “Like Peter used to do to me?” I thought of how my older brother folded my sheets and tucked them tight so I couldn’t get into bed. That reminded me that Peter got to stay in Minnesota because he was in college.

  “I’ll bet you were the best bamboozler, Sandra,” Dad teased.

  “Not me! I had better things to do. But Lars, you bamboozled Aunt Cass thoroughly the last time we came, even though you were only two. Whenever she’d go out to hang up the wash, you’d pull in all the latchstrings and strand her outside.”

  “I did not! I don’t even know what latchstrings are!”

  Dad explained that a latchstring was a cord that could be pulled through a hole in a door to open it from the outside.

  “Cass is crazy about kids who get into mischief, especially ones named George, like my brother and you,” Mom said. “Even though George is only your middle name, it still works like a charm on Aunt Cass. Guess it reminds her of our ancestor named George. Apparently he was really something.”

  “Anyway, Lars George Olafson, don’t be surprised if Aunt Cass bamboozles you. She owes you a couple after that latchstring business,” Dad warned.

  Trading practical jokes with an old lady didn’t sound too exciting. I stared out the car window at the full moon lighting up the empty fields, and a wave of loneliness shivered through me. “Boy, you weren’t kidding when you said this place was out in the country,” I said.

  Dad replied, “Yeah, and it’s easy to get lost out here. Instead of coming to nice, square corners like in the Midwest, these little country roads snake all over the place. And they’ve got screwy names, like Seek-No-Further Pike.”

  I perked up at the mention of pike. Catching walleyed and northern pike was my specialty. So were puns. “Seek-No-Further Pike? Is that what they called Zebulon when he retired from exploring, or does it mean the fishing season’s over?”

  My double pun got double the usual groan from my parents.

  “Seek-no-further was the name of an apple grown around here a couple of centuries ago,” Mom explained.

  “And it’s pike as in turnpike, Lars. Seek-No-Further Pike is the road that goes past Penncroft Farm,” Dad went on. “It runs all the way to Valley Forge. By the way, Cass says there are bike paths and picnic places up there now. Seems ir
onic to go to Valley Forge for fun, though.”

  “I wonder if our ancestor George was there,” Mom mused.

  “Oh, him again,” I muttered. I couldn’t have cared less about some moldy old ancestor. The next subject, however, did grab my attention; I hunched forward to hear every word.

  “Did you call the school yet, Erik?”

  “Uh-huh. Lars is lucking out. There’s a teachers’ convention tomorrow, so he doesn’t have to start until Friday.”

  It didn’t sound like lucking out to me. I’d counted on the weekend at least before plunging in at a strange school. Besides, this weekend was Halloween. I hated to think about my friends back in Minneapolis trick-or-treating around our neighborhood without me. Actually, I quit wearing a costume years ago because I felt so dumb in one. But my friend Pat dressed up, and I’d go with him and wait on the sidewalk. Good old Patrick—he’d always share his hauls with me.

  “Hey, wait a minute! Where will I go trick-or-treating on Halloween?” I asked. “It’s this Saturday.”

  “Sorry, honey, I guess you won’t get to go this year. There aren’t any neighbors close enough to walk to—at least at night,” Mom said. “But don’t worry, we’ll have our own old-fashioned Halloween party.”

  “Great.” I slouched back in the seat and closed my eyes. The sound of my parents’ voices seemed to come from far away.

  “Have you had a chance to ask Aunt Cass about her will, Erik?” my mother asked anxiously.

  “Not really, honey. It’s pretty awkward. I thought maybe it would be better if you asked her.”

  “It makes me feel like such a vulture, but we do have to be practical. After all, Cass is ninety years old.”

  Dad put the car into low gear for a hilly curve. “I can’t believe she would urge us to pull up stakes and make Penncroft our home unless she planned to let us stay after she’s gone. Surely she’s changed her will so we inherit the farm, Sandra. It’s too bad you said you didn’t want the place when she first asked you, after George died.”

  “Yes, but back then we didn’t think we’d ever move here. Then Cass wrote that she was leaving the farm to be used for a museum of the First American Civil War, whatever that means.”

  “Well, she did say that the museum idea wasn’t working out.”

  “We’ll have to ask her about her will sometime. Really, if she’d rather have Penncroft be a museum, that’s fine, too. I’ll be happy wherever we live, Erik, but I would hate to uproot Lars again. Moving’s been awfully hard on him. Still, I’m glad this Philadelphia job came along so you don’t have to travel anymore. Oh! There’s the covered bridge!” Mom said excitedly.

  Rattling through the old wooden structure roused me. “I’ve never been in one of these before,” I said. “It’s pretty neat.”

  “It is quaint,” Mom said. “But that’s not the only quaint thing around. Wait until you see your bed—the one my brother used to sleep in at Penncroft. It has a canopy.”

  “A can o’ pee? You mean this place doesn’t have bathrooms?”

  Mom shook her finger at me. “You know very well what I mean, Lars. A canopy over the bed, not under it!”

  “It better not have ruffles,” I protested.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “As canopies go, it’s not a bit frilly. It was masculine enough for your ancestor George to sleep under. Besides, George himself is hanging in your room. So’s his wife.”

  “H-h-h-hanging . . . ,” I stuttered, every horror movie I’d ever seen replaying before my eyes.

  “She’s only teasing you, Lars,” Dad said. “It’s a portrait of the old boy by Charles Willson Peale, who painted most of the Revolution big shots, like Washington and Franklin. Well, here we are!”

  The headlights picked out a crooked wooden fence and a post with a sign in spiky, old-fashioned letters. “‘Penncroft Farm,’” I read out loud. “‘Established 1760.’”

  Dad eased the car around the corner and started up the driveway. “Don’t even think of skateboarding down this, Lars,” he said. “There’s quite a drop-off on the other side of the pike. You’d break a leg if you went off it, and maybe your neck.”

  “It’s too rutted for skateboarding anyway, Dad,” I replied. Then, as we jounced up the long, steep driveway, I stuck my head out the window to check out my new home.

  Even by moonlight I could tell that it was different from any house I’d ever seen. It looked as if someone hadn’t been able to decide what sort of house he wanted, so he’d hooked several kinds together. There were dark, bumpy stones on the middle part, but the left section was shingled like our old Minnesota house; the right was covered with white stuff.

  Mom said the pointy windows were called eyebrow windows.

  “Okay, then, so which window belongs to the room where the ghost hangs out?” I asked, only half in jest.

  “Now that is something you’re going to have to discover for yourself,” she said, giving her version of a fiendish laugh.

  I winced. “Aw, Mom, cut it out. You don’t honestly think you scared me with that dumb story about ghosts.”

  “I didn’t mean to scare you, honey. These ghosts are very friendly; nothing to fret about at all, according to George. What an imagination that brother of mine had, and what a tease he was!” She sighed.

  “That’s where your room is, Lars,” Dad said. “The far left window on the second floor—the one with the light on.”

  I glanced up. Someone was silhouetted in the window of what was to be my room. Whoever it was slowly raised one hand. It reminded me of the picture sent on the Pioneer 10 space probe to greet the rest of the universe. “Is that Aunt Cass waving at us?” I asked.

  “I don’t see her,” Mom said. “Where is she?”

  “There—in my room,” I said impatiently.

  “You must be seeing things, Lars,” Dad responded. “Cass hardly ever goes up there now. The stairs are getting to be too much for her.”

  “Maybe it’s a window shade flapping in the breeze,” Mom said.

  “B-but can’t you see . . .” I looked up again, but the figure was gone.

  The headlights swooped past the front of an old barn as we pulled to a stop behind the house. As soon as I climbed out of the car, I started toward the back door. I wanted to know who had been looking out of that window.

  But before I’d taken more than a few steps, an eerie sound stopped me in my tracks. A spooky stream of notes, wheezy and piercing, was coming from the house.

  “What’s that?” I said in a hoarse whisper.

  Without missing a beat, Mom answered matter-of-factly, “Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, unless I miss my guess.”

  Dad sang along. “Duddle-la . . . deedle deedle deet deeeeee. Remember, Lars, when we saw 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea? That’s the pipe organ piece Captain Nemo played on board his submarine.”

  “Oh yeah,” I gulped. “Captain Nemo on the Nautilus.”

  “It’s only Cass playing her pump organ,” Mom said. “Go in and introduce yourself, Lars. You’re the one she’s most anxious to see. Besides, I have a surprise for her I have to dig out.”

  Suddenly I wasn’t too keen about walking into that creepy old place by myself. Swallowing hard, I marched to the door and tried the handle. It didn’t budge.

  Dad came up and set down a couple of suitcases. “Darn, she’s pulled in the latchstring. Shell never hear the knocker over the sound of that organ. Run around to the front door, Lars, and see if that string’s out. Just give it a pull.” He headed back to the car, where Mom was rummaging through the trunk.

  I trudged around to the front door and tugged on the leather thong hanging out beneath the door handle. Slowly, slowly, the old wooden door creaked open.

  Inside, candlelight flickered from a candelabra on a pump organ that did look like Captain Nemo’s. My great-aunt sat playing at the keyboard, her feet vigorously working the pedals below. I crossed over and timidly touched her on the shoulder. Startled, she shrieked so loudly that I
echoed a pretty respectable squawk myself.

  Aunt Cass ratcheted herself around on the organ bench, and I got a good look at her. Except for the color of her face, she looked exactly like the witch in The Wizard of Oz. I noticed her hand was over her heart as if she planned to say the pledge of allegiance, but she exclaimed, “My, but you took me by surprise, young man. I presume you are George?”

  “Why, n-no—my name’s Lars,” I stammered.

  She waved away my words. “Yes, yes, of course, but I prefer to call you L. George—George for short.”

  Not knowing what else to say, I asked if I could try the organ.

  She nodded. “You’ll find it’s better exercise than any newfangled Nautilus machine,” she said, pursing her lips.

  I wondered if Captain Nemo would agree.

  Just then my mother came running in, looking alarmed and sounding breathless. “What was all that screaming?” she asked.

  “We took each other aback,” Aunt Cass said. “A good beginning. This George promises to be as much fun as your brother. Now, give me a good hug, Sandra. It’s about time you came back to Penncroft Farm!”

  While they were hugging, Dad came in loaded with luggage “Here’s what you were looking for, Sandra,” he said, handing her a wrapped box.

  Mom took the package and gave it to Aunt Cass. “I’ve been meaning to give you this for a long time.”

  “You shouldn’t waste your money on me,” my great-aunt declared.

  Mom shook her head slowly. “I didn’t.”

  Aunt Cass unwrapped the package. Inside was a wooden toy—a sort of cup on a stick with a ball connected to it by a leather cord. She stared at it without saying a word, then deftly flipped the ball into the cup. “I don’t understand,” she said, turning to gaze at Mom. “Why did you bring this to me?”

  “When George . . .” Mom’s voice choked up. She cleared her throat and went on. “After George was killed in Vietnam, all his personal effects were sent to me. This old cup and ball came with his other stuff.”