“Thank you. I have been down with the rheumatiz, and can’t skip round quite as lively as I could once,” said the man as he climbed into the wagon. “’Spect you are from the country and on your way to market, eh?”
Robert replied that he was from New Hampshire.
“Ever been this way before?”
“No, this is my first trip.”
“Well, then, perhaps I can p’int out some things that may interest ye.”
Robert thanked him.
“This little strip of land we are on is the ‘Neck.’ This water on our left is Charles River,—this on our right is Gallows Bay. Ye see that thing out there, don’t ye?”
The man pointed with his cane. “Well, that’s the gallows, where pirates and murderers are hung. Lots of ’em have been swung off there, with thousands of people looking to see ’em have their necks stretched. ’Tain’t a pretty sight, though.”
The man took a chew of tobacco, and renewed the conversation.
“My name is Peter Bushwick, and yours may be—?”