About sunset we reached a good-looking house on the right-hand side of the road, and perhaps a hundred yards away from it. Somewhat timidly we approached, going around to the side door, and not venturing to make our call at the front one. A stern-looking man came out, and before we spoke he eyed us with apparent suspicion. Evidently he was like the man on the road and took us for runaway apprentices; at all events his manner had very little welcome in it and I thought it best to explain at once who we were. "We are the sons of Samuel Crane and William Taylor of Pembroke," I said. "We are on our way to Boston, with our fathers' consent, to go to sea, and we ask the privilege of sleeping in your barn to-night if you have no objection. If you want us to do any work to pay for our lodging, we are ready to do it, or we will pay in money if you insist." The idea of paying for sleeping in a barn seemed to hit him on the funny side, as the sternness of his features relaxed, and a smile played about them. In reply to my statement and request he said,-- "Looks to me very much as though you youngsters were running away from your masters. Are you telling me the truth?" "Yes, sir," I replied; "we are telling you the exact truth. We have no papers about us to prove who we are, but we give you our words that we are not runaways at all, but just what we claim to be." "Let me see what you have in that bundle," said the man. "I want to be sure you haven't taken anything that doesn't belong to you." I felt a flush of anger as he made this suggestion, and was about to reply rather tartly to the intimation that we might have stolen something. But the consciousness of my innocence of any wrong-doing, and, furthermore, the knowledge that the contents of our packs would prove it, restrained me. I said not a word, but undid my bundle and spread the contents before his eyes. He gave a rapid glance at the articles displayed, and said in a sort of undertone, "New clothes, new stockings, new shirt; nothing else; all right." Then addressing himself to us directly, he said,-- "Boys, I believe just what you've told me. No runaway apprentice carries a pack like that. You are welcome to sleep in my barn; no, you sha'n't do that, you shall sleep in the house! You're hungry, and will want some supper; come right in." "Thank you, sir," I said; "our mothers put up something for us to eat, enough to last us to Boston, provided we are economical. So we can eat our supper out here under the trees, and will sleep wherever you tell us to." "Oh, nonsense, boys, come into the house and eat supper here. Save your provisions for to-morrow, and then you can eat just as hearty a dinner as you want to on the road without fear of starvation."