From what the Parson could see of him in the darkness he was an old pack peddler. His figure was bent and stooping, and he bore upon his back a heavy load. As to his face, it was so covered by a growth of heavy black hair and beard that the Parson could see nothing but a pair of twinkling eyes. Such was the man; to the Parson’s infinite amazement he was setting down his pack and preparing to display his wares to him—to him, the refined and cultured Boston scholar.
“Shoe laces, suspenders?” muttered the curious creature, in a low, disagreeable voice.
“No!” said the other, emphatically.
“Matches, collar buttons?”
“No!” cried the Parson, this time angrily.
“Socks, combs, brushes?”
“No! Go away!”
“Hairpins, needles, necklaces?”
“I tell you I don’t want anything!” exclaimed the cadet. “You disturb my meditations, yea, by Zeus, exceedingly! I have no money. I don’t want anything!”
The strange old man paid not the least attention to these emphatic and scholarly remonstrances. He was still fumbling at his pack, about to display the contents. And so the Parson, who was exceedingly provoked at having been interrupted in a most valuable train of thought, seeing the man was persistent, sprang up and started to hurry away in disgust.