“I don’t know,” answered Jerry; “I should think it was about eighteen miles.”
“Running away from home, eh?” continued the inquirer.
“No, I’m not running away, but my mother has sent me to Boston, to get work.” And Jerry could utter this falsehood with so honest a look and so smooth a tongue, as to deceive all who heard him!
“What is your name?” continued his inquisitive host—for it was the keeper of the tavern that put these questions.
“Jeremiah Preston.”
“And where did you say you belong?”
“In Brookdale.”
“And are you going to take the stage to-morrow morning for Boston?”
“Yes, sir.”
The tavern-keeper made several other inquiries, which were answered to his satisfaction. He then left the room, and presently returned and told Jerry that his supper was ready. Following his host, Jerry entered a long room, in the middle of which stood a table, running nearly the whole length. At one end of this table were spread the dishes and victuals for Jerry’s supper, the rest of the household having been to tea. There were warm biscuits and butter, rich milk, and smoking tea, nice-looking cheese, and red, juicy applesauce,—besides a plate of tempting cakes, and pies of two kinds. A lady poured out a cup of tea, and then left him to help himself to the eatables. His long walk had given him a sharp appetite, and he availed himself of this privilege very freely. It seemed to him that he never sat down to so good a supper before. He ate until he began to feel ashamed of himself, and then left off, not because he had had enough, but because he was afraid to eat more.