After six days, Jethro and Lyman drove over Charlestown bridge and into the crooked streets of Boston, and at length arrived at a drover’s hotel, or lodging-house that did not, we may be sure, front on Mount Vernon Street or face the Mall.  Lyman proceeded to get drunk, and Jethro to sell the hides and other merchandise which Lyman had hauled for him.

There was a young man in Boston, when Jethro arrived in Lyman Hull’s team, named William Wetherell.  By extraordinary circumstances he and another connected with him are to take no small part in this story, which is a sufficient excuse for his introduction.  His father had been a prosperous Portsmouth merchant in the West India trade, a man of many attainments, who had failed and died of a broken heart; and William, at two and twenty, was a clerk in the little jewellery shop of Mr. Judson in Cornhill.

William Wetherell had literary aspirations, and sat from morning till night behind the counter, reading and dreaming:  dreaming that he was to be an Irving or a Walter Scott, and yet the sum total of his works in after years consisted of some letters to the Newcastle Guardian, and a beginning of the Town History of Coniston!

William had a contempt for the awkward young countryman who suddenly loomed up before him that summer’s morning across the counter.  But a moment before the clerk had been in a place where he would fain have lingered—­a city where blue waters flow swiftly between white palaces toward the sunrise.

     “And I have fitted up some chambers there
     Looking toward the golden Eastern air,
     And level with the living winds, which flow
     Like waves above the living waves below.”

Little did William Wetherell guess, when he glanced up at the intruder, that he was looking upon one of the forces of his own life!  The countryman wore a blue swallow tail coat (fashioned by the hand of Speedy Bates), a neck-cloth, a coonskin cap, and his trousers were tucked into rawhide boots.  He did not seem a promising customer for expensive jewellery, and the literary clerk did not rise, but merely closed his book with his thumb in it.

“S-sell things here,” asked the countryman, “s-sell things here?”

“Occasionally, when folks have money to buy them.”

“My name’s Jethro Bass,” said the countryman, “Jethro Bass from Coniston.  Ever hear of Coniston?”

Young Mr. Wetherell never had, but many years afterward he remembered his name, heaven knows why.  Jethro Bass!  Perhaps it had a strange ring to it.

“F-folks told me to be careful,” was Jethro’s next remark.  He did not look at the clerk, but kept his eyes fixed on the things within the counter.

“Somebody ought to have come with you,” said the clerk, with a smile of superiority.

“D-don’t know much about city ways.”

“Well,” said the clerk, beginning to be amused, “a man has to keep his wits about him.”