It was fortunately a bright moonlight night, suitable for travelling, and about one o'clock the two friends escaped by driving off rapidly in their horse and buggy. They did not know the road to Haverhill, but were directed by their friends with all possible minuteness. Three miles away, also, there was the house of an anti-slavery man, and they obtained further directions there. Some time after sunrise they stopped at a wayside inn to bait their horse, and get a bite of breakfast for themselves. While they were at table the landlord said,-- "They've been having a h--l of a time down at Haverhill." "How is that?" "Oh, one of them d--d Abolitionists was lecturin' there; he had been invited to the town by a young fellow named Whittier; but they made it pretty hot for him, and I guess neither he nor Whittier will be in a hurry to repeat the thing." "What kind of a fellow is this Whittier?" "Oh, he's an ignorant sort of fellow; he don't know much." "And who is this Thompson they're talking about?" "Why, he's a man sent over here by the British to make trouble in our government." As the two friends were stepping into the buggy, Mr. Whittier, with one foot on the step, turned and said to the host, who was standing by with several tavern loafers:-- "You've been talking about Thompson and Whittier. This is Mr. Thompson, and I am Whittier. Good morning." "And jumping into the buggy," said the poet, with a twinkle in his eye, "we whipped up, and stood not on the order of our going." As for the host he stood with open mouth, being absolutely tongue-tied with astonishment. "And for all I know," said the narrator, "he's standing there still with his mouth open." Mr. Thompson was secreted at the Whittier farm-house in Haverhill for two weeks after this affair. * * * * *