“My name is Dunwell, sir,” I replied.
“Mr. Dunwell,” said Rugg, “you are the only honest man I have seen since I left Boston. As you are a stranger here, my house is your home; Dame Rugg will be happy to see her husband’s friend. Step into my chair, sir, there is room enough; move a little, Jenny, for the gentleman, and we will be in Middle Street in a minute.”
Accordingly I took a seat by Peter Rugg.
“Were you never in Boston before?” said Rugg.
“No,” said I.
“Well, you will now see the queen of New England, a town second only to Philadelphia, in all North America.”
“You forget New York,” said I.
“Poh, New York is nothing; though I never was there. I am told you might put all New York in our mill-pond. No, sir, New York, I assure you, is but a sorry affair; no more to be compared with Boston than a wigwam with a palace.”
As Rugg’s horse turned into Pearl Street, I looked Rugg as fully in the face as good manners would allow, and said, “Sir, if this is Boston, I acknowledge New York is not worthy to be one of its suburbs.”
Before we had proceeded far in Pearl Street, Rugg’s countenance changed: his nerves began to twitch; his eyes trembled in their sockets; he was evidently bewildered. “What is the matter, Mr. Rugg; you seem disturbed.”