Very close at a bargain, and very saving of his money, he seldom stopped
at the hotel, but passed the night at the houses of his acquaintances,
who frequently made no charge for his meals or his lodgings. Especially
was this the case at the farm-house where the peddler, whose name was
Joel Rogers, was always welcome, and where he usually staid when in
Allington. Between Peter Jerrold and the peddler there was a strong
friendship, and the two often sat into the small hours of the night,
while the latter told marvelous tales of his wild Welsh country, which
he held above all other lands, and to which, the last time he was seen
in Allington, he said he was about to return.
For three days he remained in the town, selling off the most of his
stock, and then bidding his friends good-by, started late on the
afternoon of Thanksgiving Day for the adjoining town, where a few debts
were owing him, and where he hoped to dispose of the rest of his
merchandise.
As he left the village the snow began to fall heavily and this, perhaps,
was why he decided to stop at the farm-house, which was not upon the
highway, but nearly half a mile from it, upon a cross-road which led
through Peter Jerrold's farm to the town line, and which was seldom
traveled by any one except by Peter Jerrold himself and those who came
to visit him.
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