The new-comer entered the gate. He was a dark man, with black hair
and black whiskers and mustache, and black eyes. He wore clothes
that had been black, but which were now toned down by a good deal
of dust, and, as I have said, he carried a black valise.
"Why did you stop here?" said I, rather inhospitably. "Don't you
know that we do not accommodate--"
"Yes, I know," he said, walking up on the piazza and setting down
his valise, "that you only take soldiers, sailors, farmers, and
mechanics at this house. I have been told all about it, and if I
had not thoroughly understood the matter I should not have thought
of such a thing as stopping here. If you will sit down for a few
moments I will explain." Saying this, he took a seat on a bench by
the door, but Euphemia and I continued to stand.
"I am," he continued, "a soldier, a sailor, a farmer, and a
mechanic. Do not doubt my word; I will prove it to you in two
minutes. When but seventeen years of age, circumstances compelled
me to take charge of a farm in New Hampshire, and I kept up that
farm until I was twenty-five. During this time I built several
barns, wagon-houses, and edifices of the sort on my place, and,
becoming expert in this branch of mechanical art, I was much sought
after by the neighboring farmers, who employed me to do similar
work for them. In time I found this new business so profitable
that I gave up farming altogether. But certain unfortunate
speculations threw me on my back, and finally, having gone from bad
to worse, I found myself in Boston, where, in sheer desperation, I
went on board a coasting vessel as landsman.
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