Part One Chapter 12 The Story

Forty years or more before the night of which we write, there had come to Allington a peddler, whose home was across the sea, in Carnarvon, Wales. He was a little, cross eyed, red-haired, wiry man, with a blunt, sharp way of speaking, but was very popular with the citizens of Allington, to whom he sold such small articles as he could conveniently carry in a bundle upon his back; needles, pins, thread, pencils, matches, thimbles, cough lozengers, Brandreth's pills, handkerchiefs, ribbons, combs, and sometimes Irish laces and Balbriggans formed a part of his heterogeneous stock, which was varied from time to time to suit the season, or the wants of his customers.

Very close at a bargain, and very saving of his money, he seldom stopped at the hotel, but passed the night at the houses of his acquaintances, who frequently made no charge for his meals or his lodgings. Especially was this the case at the farm-house where the peddler, whose name was Joel Rogers, was always welcome, and where he usually staid when in Allington. Between Peter Jerrold and the peddler there was a strong friendship, and the two often sat into the small hours of the night, while the latter told marvelous tales of his wild Welsh country, which he held above all other lands, and to which, the last time he was seen in Allington, he said he was about to return.

For three days he remained in the town, selling off the most of his stock, and then bidding his friends good-by, started late on the afternoon of Thanksgiving Day for the adjoining town, where a few debts were owing him, and where he hoped to dispose of the rest of his merchandise.