On the morning of Saturday, February the 7th, this young man, whose name
was Richard Lorrimer, and who was a clerk in a New-York mercantile house,
started from that city in the early train for Boston, whither he had been
despatched to arrange some business matters that needed the presence of a
representative of the firm. It chanced to be his first journey of any
extent; but the day was cheerless and gloomy, and the novelty of travel,
which would otherwise have been attractive, was not especially agreeable.
After exhausting the enlivening resources of a package of morning papers,
which at that time overflowed with records of every variety of crime, from
the daily murder to the hourly garrote, he dozed. At Springfield he
dined. Here, also, he fortified himself against returning ennui with a
supply of the day's journals from Boston. Singularly enough, five minutes
after resuming his place, he was once more peacefully slumbering. The pause
at Worcester scarcely roused him; but near Framingham a sharp shriek from
the locomotive, and the rapid working of the brakes, banished his dreams,
and put an end to his drowsy humor for the remainder of the journey. It was
soon made known that the engine was suffering from internal disarrangement,
and that a delay of an hour or more might be expected. The red flag was
despatched to the rear, the lamps were lighted, and the passengers composed
themselves, each as patiently and as comfortably as he could.

Lorrimer felt no inclination for further repose. He was much disturbed at
the prospect of long detention, having received directions to execute a
part of his commission that evening. Comforting himself with the profound
reflection that the fault was not his, he turned wearily to his
newspaper-files.

A middle-aged man with a keen nose and a snapping eye asked permission to
share the benefit of his treasures of journalism. As the middle-aged man