"Come, Mr. Manfred," he said, "the selectmen have managed to crowd you into the poorhouse. The wagon is at the door, and you can get ready as soon as possible."
Jacob Manfred had not calculated the strength he should need for this ordeal. There was a coldness in the very tone and manner of the man who had come for him that went like an ice-bolt to his heart, and with a deep groan he sank back in his seat.
"Come, be in a hurry," impatiently urged the keeper.
At that moment a heavy covered carriage drove up to the door.
"Is this the house of Jacob Manfred?"
This question was asked by a man who entered from the carriage. He was a kind-looking man, about forty years of age.
"That is my name," said Jacob.
"Then they told me truly," uttered the new-comer. "Are you from the almshouse?" he continued, turning toward the keeper.
"Yes."
"Then you may return. Jacob Manfred goes to no poorhouse while I live."