Almost every steamboat man, from captain and pilot down to fireman and roustabout, carried and posted Wardelow’s circulars wherever they went—­up Red River, the Yazoo, the White, the Arkansas, the Missouri, and all the smaller tributaries of the Mississippi.

New Boston had long been dropped from the list of post-towns, but every cross-road for miles around had a fingerboard showing the direction and telling the distance to New Boston.  Upon a tall cottonwood-tree on the river-bank, and nearly in front of Wardelow’s residence, was an immense signboard bearing the name of “New Boston Landing,” and on the other side of the river, at a ferry-staging belonging to a crossing whose other terminus was a mile further down the river, was a sign which informed travelers that persons wishing to go to New Boston would find a skiff marked “Wardelow” tied near the staging.

The old man never went to Mount Pisgah for stores, or up the river to fish, or even into his own cornfield and garden, without affixing to his door a placard telling where he had gone and when he would return.

When he went to the cemetery, which he frequently did, a statement to that effect, and a plan showing the route to and through the cemetery, was always appended to his door, and, as he could never clearly imagine his boy as having passed the childhood in which he had last seen him, all the signboards, placards, and circulars were in large capital letters.

Even when the river overflowed its banks, which it did nearly every Spring, the old man did not leave his house.  He would not have another story built upon it, as he was advised to do, lest Stevie might fail to recognize it on his return; but, after careful study, he had the house raised until the foundation was above high-water mark, and then had the ground made higher, but sloped so gradually that the boy could not notice the change.

When one after another of the city’s “plots,” upon which deserted houses stood, were sold for default in payment of taxes, old Wardelow bought them himself—­they always went for a song, and the old man preferred to own them, lest some one else might destroy the ruins, and thus make the place unfamiliar to the returning wanderer.

Of friends he had almost none.  Although he was intelligent, industrious, ingenious, and owned a library which passed for quite a large one in those days and in the new West, he cared to talk on only one subject, and as that was of no particular interest to other people, and became, in the course of time, extremely stale to those who did not like it, the people of Mount Pisgah and the adjoining country did not spend more time upon old Wardelow than was required by the necessities of business.

[Illustration:  THE OLD MAN NEVER LEFT HIS HOUSE WITHOUT AFFIXING TO HIS DOOR A PLACARD TELLING WHERE HE HAD GONE AND WHEN HE WOULD RETURN.]

There were a few exceptions to this rule.  Old Mrs. Perry, who passed for a saint, and whose life did not belie her reputation, used to drive her old pony up to New Boston about once a month, carrying some home-made delicacy with her, and chatting sympathetically for an hour or two.