Before getting to Boston the air turned very chill, and a fine, penetrating rain set in that for a while disturbed the student of American history with visions of rheumatism.  “God bless my soul!  I shall be laid by the heels here for weeks.  Damp is the one thing that I can’t stand up against.  And I have not left my coat out!” he exclaimed, tugging anxiously at his side-whiskers and annoyed to find how dependent he had grown on his valet.  “What shall I do?  Ah!  I have an idea.  Damp.  What resists it and is practically water-proof? Newspapers!” With this he stood up, seized the “Times” supplement, made a hole in the middle of the central fold, and put it over his head.  “Now I have improvised a South-American serape” he observed, in a tone that betrayed the pleasure it gave him to exercise his ingenuity.  He then took two other sheets and successively wrapped them around his legs, after the fashion in vogue among gardeners intent upon protecting valuable plants from the rigors of winter.  This done, he smoothed down the serape, which showed a volatile tendency to blow up a good deal, and, with a brief comment to the effect that “oilskin or india-rubber could not be better,” and no staring about him to observe the effect of his action on the passengers, replaced his hat, sat down, picked up his book again, readjusted his eye-glasses, and went on with the episode he had been reading aloud to his nephew, who, mildly bored by King Philip’s war, was mildly amused by the spectacle the baronet presented, and surprised to see that their fellow-travellers thought it an excellent joke.  A loud “Haw! haw!” and many convulsive titters testified their appreciation of the absurd contrast between Sir Robert’s highly-respectable head, his grave, absorbed air, and the remarkable way in which he was finished off below the ears; but he read on and on, in his round, agreeable voice, unconscious of the effect he was producing, until the train came to the final stop, when Mr. Porter and a very dignified, rigid style of friend came into the car to look for him.

“My dear Porter, I am delighted to see you, and I shall be with you in one moment.  I shall then have ceased to be a grub and have become a most beautiful butterfly, ready to fly away home with you as soon as ever you like,” he called out in greeting, and in a twinkling had torn off his wrappers, and stood there a revealed acquaintance, carefully collecting his “traps,” and beaming cheerfully even upon the friend, who had not come to a pantomime and showed that he disapproved of harlequins in private life.

Mr. Porter, however, was all cordiality, and very speedily transferred his guests to his own house in the vicinity of Boston.