"The pedler! why, where is he?--what the devil can he have to write
about?" was the universal exclamation.

"The pedler!" said the lawyer, and his sobriety grew strengthened at the
thought of business; he called to the waiter and whispered in his ears--

"Hark ye, cuffee; go bring out the pedler's horse, saddle him with my
saddle which lies in the gallery, bring him to the tree, and, look ye,
make no noise about it, you scoundrel, as you value your ears."

Cuffee was gone on his mission--and the whole assembly aroused by the
name of the pedler and the mysterious influence of the communication
upon the lawyer, gathered, with inquiries of impatience, around him.
Finding him slow, they clamored for the contents of the epistle, and the
route of the writer--neither of which did he seem desirous to
communicate. His evasions and unwillingness were all in vain, and he was
at length compelled to undertake the perusal of the scrawl; a task he
would most gladly have avoided in their presence. He was in doubt and
fear. What could the pedler have to communicate, on paper, which might
not have been left over for their interview? His mind was troubled, and,
pushing the crowd away from immediately about him, he tore open the
envelope and began the perusal--proceeding with a measured gait, the
result as well of the "damned cramp hand" as of the still foggy
intellect and unsettled vision of the reader. But as the characters and
their signification became more clear and obvious to his gaze, his
features grew more and more sobered and intelligent--a blankness
overspread his face--his hands trembled, and finally, his apprehensions,
whatever they might have been, having seemingly undergone full
confirmation, he crumpled the villanous scrawl in his hands, and dashing
it to the floor in a rage, roared out in quick succession volley after