Travellers," said I, "is a story more or less intelligible,--generally
less; but we shall read it by a clearer light when it is ended. I, for
one, am so divided this night between fact and fiction, that I scarce
know which is which. Shall I beguile the time by telling you a story as
we sit here?"

They all answered, yes. I had little to tell them, but I was bound by my
own proposal. Therefore, after looking for awhile at the spiral column
of smoke wreathing up from my brown beauty, through which I could have
almost sworn I saw the effigy of Master Richard Watts less startled than
usual, I fired away.




CHAPTER II--THE STORY OF RICHARD DOUBLEDICK


In the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine, a relative of
mine came limping down, on foot, to this town of Chatham. I call it this
town, because if anybody present knows to a nicety where Rochester ends
and Chatham begins, it is more than I do. He was a poor traveller, with
not a farthing in his pocket. He sat by the fire in this very room, and
he slept one night in a bed that will be occupied to-night by some one
here.

My relative came down to Chatham to enlist in a cavalry regiment, if a
cavalry regiment would have him; if not, to take King George's shilling
from any corporal or sergeant who would put a bunch of ribbons in his
hat. His object was to get shot; but he thought he might as well ride to