At the same time he heard the noise of wheels, and looking up, beheld a
specimen of a class well known throughout New England--a tin pedler. He
was seated on a cart liberally stocked with articles of tin ware. From
the rear depended two immense bags, one of which served as a receptacle
for white rags, the other for bits of calico and whatever else may fall
under the designation of "colored." His shop, for such it was, was
drawn at a brisk pace by a stout horse, who in this respect presented a
contrast to his master, who was long and lank. The pedler himself was
a man of perhaps forty, with a face in which shrewdness and good humor
seemed alike indicated. Take him for all in all, you might travel some
distance without falling in with a more complete specimen of the Yankee.

"So you came nigh losing your dinner," he repeated, in a pleasant tone.

"Yes," said Paul, "I got tired and fell asleep, and I don't know when I
should have waked up but for your dog."

"Yes, Boney's got a keen scent for provisions," laughed the pedler.
"He's a little graspin', like his namesake. You see his real name is
Bonaparte; we only call him Boney, for short."

Meanwhile he had stopped his horse. He was about to start afresh, when a
thought struck him.

"Maybe you're goin' my way," said he, turning to Paul; "if you are,
you're welcome to a ride."

Paul was very glad to accept the invitation. He clambered into the cart,
and took a seat behind the pedler, while Boney, who took his recent