The whip snapped, the wheels whirled round, and we passed through the lighted streets with almost incredible speed.  I ventured to make an inquiry, and the reply was,

“You are doing a good deed.  My name is Jotham Jenks.  Ask no questions now.”

Thus was a veto put upon the movements of my tongue for the time being.  I, however, recognized the voice of Mr. Jenks; and though I knew but little respecting him, I judged from his appearance that he was a quiet, unoffending man; and such I afterwards found him.

For thirty minutes the horses raced along, causing the water, ice and snow, to take to themselves wings and fly upon pedestrians, windows, and sundry other animate and inanimate objects of creation.  For myself, I began to experience some misgiving, for thus exposing myself to what, I did not know.

At length the carriage turned down a dark, narrow street, leading to one of the wharves, upon which we finally found ourselves.  The driver jumped from his seat, opened the carriage-door, threw down the steps, and we got out.

Matters had reached a crisis.  Was I to be thrown into the water?  The assurance of my companion that I was doing a good deed seemed to disfavor this supposition, as what possible good could that do myself or any one else?  Yet, for what was I taken from a warm room, on such a cold, dismal, dark night, and hurried to the wharf?

“Now,” said I to the stranger, “I must know the meaning of all this,—­the why and the wherefore.”

He took my hand in his.  It was quite dark.  I could not see, yet I could tell by his voice that he wept, as he said,

“In a berth in the cabin of that vessel lies a young man, far from his home, among strangers,—­sick, perhaps dying.  No relative, other than those of the great brotherhood of. mankind, is near to minister to his wants, or to speak comfort to his troubled heart.  He had been here about two days, when I was informed of his situation by a friend who came in the same vessel.  I have brought you here that you might listen to his statements, and assist me in assisting him.  There is much of romance in his narrative, and, as you are preparing a volume of life-sketches, as found in town and country, I have thought that what falls from his lips might fill a few pages with interest and profit to your readers.”

I thanked him for his thoughtfulness.  My suspicions and fears were all allayed; I asked no more questions, but followed my friend as he passed to the vessel, and descended the narrow stairway to the cabin.

A small lamp hung from the ceiling, and shed a sort of gloomy light around.  I had been in chambers of sickness, but never in a room where more neatness was discernible, or more sufficiency for its tenant, than in the cabin in which I then was.  A sailor boy seated by a berth indicated to me the spot where the sick man lay.  We were informed that he had just fallen into a sleep, and we were careful not to awake him.