“Oh! yes,” said he, “lots of ’em every season, and your speaking about ’em puts me in mind. Some of ’em have got the sand in ’em, but not many. There was one chap up here two summers ago,” and here he broke out laughing till his hearty peals reverberated again and again among the ledges through which the road was cut. “He was up here,” he continued, “two seasons ago. I didn’t see him to know him, but I believe he came over the mountain from the Crawford House and then rode over to Littleton with me. His name was John—John Oakie—Oakum. John Oakum, that’s the fellow. Well, I read a piece of his in the—Herald about this country, and if he hasn’t got the longest gas-pipe in him of any man I ever see, then I don’t know a whip-socket from an ear of green corn.”

The road at about this point was very rocky, and the coach made a hideous noise, so I could not well discover my identity. Afterward I might have done so, but after all I am a modest man; I don’t care to have it bruited about who I am, when for the nonce I forget my proud eminence in life and am traveling incognito. It was for this reason, and for no other, I assure you, that I refrained from pressing my card on the old gentleman at parting.