rattled its loose window-sashes like chattering teeth, banged its
ill-hung shutters, and admitted so much of the invading storm, that it
might have blown up or blown down with equal facility.

Jefferson Briggs, proprietor and landlord of the "Half-way House," had
just gone through the formality of closing his house for the night,
hanging dangerously out of the window in the vain attempt to subdue a
rebellious shutter that had evidently entered into conspiracy with the
invaders, and, shutting a door as against a sheriff's posse, was going
to bed--i. e., to read himself asleep, as was his custom. As he entered
his little bedroom in the attic with a highly exciting novel in his
pocket and a kerosene lamp in his hand, the wind, lying in wait for
him, instantly extinguished his lamp and slammed the door behind him.
Jefferson Briggs relighted the lamp, as if confidentially, in a corner,
and, shielding it in the bosom of his red flannel shirt, which gave him
the appearance of an illuminated shrine, hung a heavy bear-skin across
the window, and then carefully deposited his lamp upon a chair at his
bedside. This done, he kicked off his boots, flung them into a corner,
and, rolling himself in a blanket, lay down upon the bed. A habit of
early rising, bringing with it, presumably, the proverbial accompaniment
of health, wisdom, and pecuniary emoluments, had also brought with it
certain ideas of the effeminacy of separate toilettes and the virtue of
readiness.

In a few moments he was deep in a chapter.

A vague pecking at his door--as of an unseasonable woodpecker, finally
asserted itself to his consciousness. "Come in," he said, with his eye
still on the page.