thanked him.

“This little strip of land we are on is the ‘Neck.’ This water on our left is Charles River,—this on our right is Gallows Bay. Ye see that thing out there, don’t ye?”

The man pointed with his cane. “Well, that’s the gallows, where pirates and murderers are hung. Lots of ’em have been swung off there, with thousands of people looking to see ’em have their necks stretched. ’Tain’t a pretty sight, though.”

The man took a chew of tobacco, and renewed the conversation.

“My name is Peter Bushwick, and yours may be—?”

“Robert Walden.”

“Thank ye, Mr. Walden. So ye took the road through Cambridge instead of Charlestown.”

“I let Jenny pick the road. That through Charlestown would have been nearer, but I should have to cross the ferry. My father usually comes this way.”[2]

“Mighty fine mare, Mr. Walden; ye can see she’s a knowing critter. She’s got the right kind of an ear; she knows what she’s about.”

They were at the narrowest part of the peninsula, and Mr. Bushwick told about the barricade built by the first settlers at that point to protect the town from the Indians, and pointed to a large elm-tree which they could see quite a distance ahead.

“That is the Liberty Tree,”[3] he said.

“Why do you call it the Liberty Tree?”

“Because it is where the Sons of Liberty meet. It is a mighty fine tree, and, as near as we can make out, is more than one hundred years old. We hang the Pope there on Guy Fawkes’ day, and traitors to liberty on other days.”

“I have heard you have jolly good times on Gunpowder Plot days.”

“You may believe we do. You would have laughed if you’d been here Gunpowder day seven years ago this coming November, when the Pope, Admiral Byng, Nancy Dawson,[4] and the Devil, all were found hanging on the old elm.”

“I don’t think I ever heard about Admiral Byng and Nancy Dawson.”

“Well, then, I must tell ye. Byng didn’t fight the French and Spaniards at Minorca, but sailed away and sort o’ showed the white feather, and so was court-martialed and shot on his own ship.”

“What did Nancy do?”

“Oh, Nancy never did anything except kick up her heels; she’s the best dancer in London, so they say. We haven’t any theatre in this ’ere town, and don’t have much dancing. We have the Thursday lecture instead.”

Robert wondered whether the allusion to the lecture was said soberly or in sarcasm.

“In London they go wild over dancing. Maybe I might sing a song about her if ye would like to hear it.”

“I would like very much to hear it.”

Mr. Bushwick took the quid of tobacco from his mouth, cleared his throat, and sang,—