“‘Why,’ said he, ‘how can you deceive me so? It is cruel to mislead a traveller. I have lost my way; pray direct me the nearest way to Boston.’ “I repeated, it was one hundred miles. “‘How can you say so?’ said he; ‘I was told last evening it was but fifty, and I have travelled all night.’ “‘But,’ said I, ‘you are now travelling from Boston. You must turn back.’ “‘Alas,’ said he, ‘it is all turn back! Boston shifts with the wind, and plays all around the compass. One man tells me it is to the east, another to the west; and the guide-posts too, they all point the wrong way.’ “‘But will you not stop and rest?’ said I; ‘you seem wet and weary.’ “‘Yes,’ said he, ‘it has been foul weather since I left home.’ “‘Stop, then, and refresh yourself.’ “‘I must not stop; I must reach home to-night, if possible: though I think you must be mistaken in the distance to Boston.’ “He then gave the reins to his horse, which he restrained with difficulty, and disappeared in a moment. A few days afterward I met the man a little this side of Claremont,[38] winding around the hills in Unity, at the rate, I believe, of twelve miles an hour.” “Is Peter Rugg his real name, or has he accidentally gained that name?” “I know not, but presume he will not deny his name; you can ask him,--for see, he has turned his horse, and is passing this way.” In a moment a dark-colored, high-spirited horse approached, and would have passed without stopping, but I had resolved to speak to Peter Rugg, or whoever the man might be. Accordingly I stepped into the street; and as the horse approached, I made a feint of stopping him. The man immediately reined in his horse. “Sir,” said I, “may I be so bold as to inquire if you are not Mr. Rugg? for I think I have seen you before.” “My name is Peter Rugg,” said he. “I have unfortunately lost my way; I am wet and weary, and will take it kindly of you to direct me to Boston.” “You live in Boston, do you; and in what street?” “In Middle Street.” “When did you leave Boston?” “I cannot tell precisely; it seems a considerable time.” “But how did you and your child become so wet? It has not rained here to-day.” “It has just rained a heavy shower up the river. But I shall not reach Boston to-night if I tarry. Would you advise me to take the old road or the turnpike?” “Why, the old road is one hundred and seventeen miles, and the turnpike is ninety-seven.” “How can you say so? You impose on me; it is wrong to trifle with a traveller; you know it is but forty miles from Newburyport to Boston.” “But this is not Newburyport; this is Hartford.” “Do not deceive me, sir. Is not this town Newburyport, and the river that I have been following the Merrimack?” “No, sir; this is Hartford, and the river the Connecticut.”