"Yes; I want one that has a good reputation if there is such a one," said Benjamin.
"Well, if thee will follow me, I will show thee a better one; it is not far away."
Benjamin followed him into Water Street, where he pointed out a public house.
"There's the 'Crooked Billet,'" said the Quaker, "a tavern that is reputable, where thee can find board and lodgings for a day or a year."
"Thank you, sir, for your kindness," said Benjamin; "I shall not forget you. May every body be as friendly to you as you have been to me."
At the same time, Benjamin thought it was a very queer name for a public house. He did not like either part of it, and he said to himself, "'Crooked Billet'!—crookedness and a cudgel to strike down the turbulent with, are suggested." The name did not suggest any thing pleasant to him. But he went in, and engaged lodging and board until Monday.
"Where are you from?" asked the landlord, scanning him from head to foot.
"I am from Boston."
"Boston, hey? How long have you been on the way?"
"Two weeks."