Phil was the eldest son of ’Squire Hardy, one of the leading citizens of Basinburg. He was a harum-scarum youth of eighteen, who always seemed to be mixed up in every affair of a shady character taking place within a radius of twenty miles. Like boys of his ilk, he ever seemed to be present whenever anything of an unusual nature was taking place, and “to get his fingers into the pie,” using a common expression current at the time in the quiet, out-of-the-way hamlet of Basinburg. Not another boy in town would have ridden five miles through the mud that day to have been in Wenham at this time. But Phil had not missed it, and as he picked up Jim’s reins, heading the horse homeward, he added to what he had already said: “They oughter know it just as quick as they can, and they shall! Won’t they stick out their eyes, though? Let me see. This train goes by the Bradford loop, makes four stops, and it will use up forty minutes in getting to Basinburg. Old Jim ought to take me there in half an hour. He can, and he shall! Go, you old veteran of the plow! we’re the bearer of the news to Ghent.” Laughing, as he gave expression to this whimsical speech, Phil urged Jim ahead at the top of his speed, while the good people of Wenham had further occasion to comment upon the wild ways of ’Squire Hardy’s scapegrace son. The road to Basinburg was sparsely settled, so Phil saw few people until he entered the quiet hamlet, which, as its name indicates, was shaped very much like a huge basin, with roads around the rim. Most of the population of the town lived on these circular roads, that met at the lower end, where was located the post office, church and store. The sight of his mud-bespattered figure and the foaming condition of his horse called the more easily excited of the inhabitants from their houses, while he shouted at frequent intervals: “Come and see the elephant! Nothing like it ever came to town!” Utterly regardless of his grammar, or the comments he was calling upon himself, Phil repeated his rather incoherent speech, and by the time he had uttered it a dozen times, the boys began to follow him, wondering what new scheme their leader was carrying out. This aroused Phil to more earnest cries, while he prodded poor old Jim harder than before. Small wonder if the older people began to rush after the crazy rider, until a mob of excited men and women, as well as boys, was at his heels. “What is it, Philip?” asked the gray-headed parson, running out in his slippers, hatless and coatless. “Deacon Cornhill--hoodlums of New York--a mob!” was all that the anxious crowd could distinguish in the medley of cries. Still Phil showed no signs of stopping or checking his wild ride, his course now being toward the little way station about half a mile below the post office village. On account of the high grade this had been as near as the cars could come into the town.