The door of the chariot was opened, and another wonder appeared in the shape of an old man in a cocked hat, cape-cloak, and knee-buckles, carrying a gold-headed cane. He rose up from under a kind of canopy, and said in a terrific tone:— [Illustration: AUDITORIUM. LAKE FRONT. PALMER HOUSE AND STATE STREET. AUDITORIUM DINING ROOM. CHICAGO HOTELS.] “_Where’s_ the blacksmith?” The word “where” rasped the very air. “Ah, ah—I see,—Lord Dexter,” stammered Blingo. “You do me great honor. How can I serve you? What can I do for you?” The old man turned to his coachman, and said, laconically,— “You talk with him.” “One of the horses has cast a shoe,” said the coachman. The blacksmith at once examined the foot of the horse,—a matter in which Tommy Topp took little interest, as that was a common affair. The boy’s eyes were riveted on the infirm but pompous old man, as he hobbled about with the aid of his gold-headed cane. The strange restlessness of his eyes would have excited the curiosity of any one, and seemed to fascinate Tommy, whose life had been uneventful, but who had a very lively imagination. The old man took a few turns under the trees, through which the sunlight was sifting that bright, mellow afternoon. Then he turned suddenly and exclaimed in a tone of command,— “Plummer, get out.” Another marvel appeared, a marvel to Tommy, and a spectacle that would have been equally exciting to almost any one outside of the sea-town of Newburyport and its neighborhoods. Out of a richly embroidered or figured robe rose a figure covered by a cloak that was decorated with stars and fringes. It was a poet,—an unusual curiosity, for poets were not common in those days. He, too, had a cocked hat, large silver knee-buckles, and a gold-headed cane. Tommy had heard of Jonathan Plummer, the former fish-peddler, who had discovered that he could make rhymes, and had been appointed laureate by “Lord” Timothy Dexter, whose château, with its remarkable statues and gilded eagle, looked down from a high street on the blue harbor of Newburyport. To Tommy, this transformation of a poor fish-peddler into the poet of the self-created “lord” was one of the most marvellous events since the days of which he had read in the “Thousand and One Nights.” The poems of Jonathan Plummer are still to be found in the quaint lore of antiquarian societies, in whose safe deposits so much of the world’s genius has to wait appreciation. Who was this strange man, thus impatiently waiting for the shoeing of his horse, who so greatly excited the curiosity of the Yankee boy? A more picturesque answer cannot be given than that presented in the words of Jonathan Plummer, the poet, quoted from a long poem which relates his master’s history:—