It was three o’clock in the morning, and for an hour he trudged on and on, past block and square, casting the welcome household visitor, “The Courier,” right and left as he went.  Suddenly he stopped a moment to listen.  “Dere, it’s four o’clock,” he said, as old St. Luke’s rang out the hour.  “I’ll soon be through dis ward, an’ in time for the up-town gentry too, as dey takes breakfast late.  Old Peter has a long round, but he don’t mind dat, so he gits de money.  Den all de quality knows old Peter, and how de hats come off and de ladies smile when de New Year comes round again.  Humph!  Jingo!  How stiff dis knee!  When old Peter dead and gone, nebber find anodder carrier like him.  Peter nebber stop for nuffin, de rain nor de shine, de northers nor de anything-umph! not even de rheumatiz.”  Here the old man cut short his soliloquy, stooping down to rub the afflicted member that so retarded his progress, and whose pain was an ever-present reminder that his agility and youth were gone forever.  Erecting himself, he began again, “Dis bin a putty hard winter on mos’ anybody, ’specially on de rheumatiz.  But for de w’iskey bitters of de boss, old Peter wouldn’t be as spry is he is.  Boss says, ‘W’iskey bitters mighty good for anything,’ an’ I believe him.  Here it’s Jinnivery, an’ the winter mos’ gone, an’ the rheumatiz will work out of me by next winter, an’ then I’ll be as good as new again.”  By this time the old carrier stood over against the Citadel Square, and halting for a moment in his hobbling march, he looked right and left, backward and forward, and then said, “Guess I’ll save a block in going to Vine street, by cutting through the Citadel Square-so I will.  The gates are always locked at this hour, but I know where I can slip through under a loose plank, papers and all.”  So saying, he hobbled across the street, found the opening, and doubling himself up, went through it in a trice.  Then trudging on, he bethought himself again of the sovereign remedy for all his ailments, “rheumatiz” especially, and he continued with evident delight: 

“Next winter w’iskey bitters will be good too, and de boss will be shure to have ’nuff for us both.  I ‘spec’ the boss teched wid de rheumatiz.  I’ll-Hallo! w’at’s dat?  Jes’ git out ob my way, ole grunter.  Dis ole Peter.”

“Oh, God! help me! come here!” groaned a half audible voice.  “Come to me! help me! help me!”

“O Lordy!” exclaimed old Peter as he jumped back in sudden fright.  “Who’s dat?  What you want?  W’at’s de matter?  I don’t like spirits.  You can’t trick me.  I’m the carrier ob de Courier dese five an’ twenty year.  What you want?”

“O Lord! help me!  Come to me, Peter.  I know you.  I can do no harm.  Come, I implore!  Come quickly!  Reassured by the faint, but importunate words, old Peter approached the dark object that lay upon the ground, scarcely discernible in the dim twilight of approaching day.

“Bend down close to me, Peter.  I am dying.  I am cold and faint, and wish to say a few words to you.”