A young fellow， a tobacco-pedler by trade， was on hisway from Morristown， where he had dealt largely with thedeacon of the Shaker settlement， to the village of Parker’sFalls， on Salmon River. He had a neat little cart paintedgreen， with a box of cigars depicted on each side-panel，and an Indian chief holding a pipe and a golden tobaccostalkon the rear. The pedler drove a smart little mare andwas a young man of excellent character， keen at a bargain，but none the worse liked by the Yankees， who， as I haveheard them say， would rather be shaved with a sharp razorthan a dull one. Especially was he beloved by the prettygirls along the Connecticut， whose favor he used to courtby presents of the best smoking-tobacco in his stock，knowing well that the country-lasses of New England aregenerally great performers on pipes. Moreover， as will beseen in the course of my story， the pedler was inquisitiveand something of a tattler， always itching to hear the newsand anxious to tell it again.
After an early breakfast at Morristown the tobaccopedler—whose name was Dominicus Pike—had travelled
seven miles through a solitary piece of woods withoutspeaking a word to anybody but himself and his little graymare. It being nearly seven o’clock， he was as eager to holda morning gossip as a city shopkeeper to read the morningpaper. An opportunity seemed at hand when， after lightinga cigar with a sun-glass， he looked up and perceived a mancoming over the brow of the hill at the foot of which thepedler had stopped his green cart. Dominicus watchedhim as he descended， and noticed that he carried a bundleover his shoulder on the end of a stick and travelled witha weary yet determined pace. He did not look as if he hadstarted in the freshness of the morning， but had footed itall night， and meant to do the same all day.
“Good-morning， mister，” said Dominicus， when withinspeaking-distance. “You go a pretty good jog. What’s thelatest news at Parker’s Falls？”
The man pulled the broad brim of a gray hat over hiseyes， and answered， rather sullenly， that he did not comefrom Parker’s Falls， which， as being the limit of his ownday’s journey， the pedler had naturally mentioned in hisinquiry.
“Well， then，” rejoined Dominicus Pike， “let’s have thelatest news where you did come from. I’m not particularabout Parker’s Falls. Any place will answer.”
Being thus importuned， the traveller—who was as illlookinga fellow as one would desire to meet in a solitarypiece of woods—appeared to hesitate a little， as if he waseither searching his memory for news or weighing theexpediency of telling it. At last， mounting on the step ofthe cart， he whispered in the ear of Dominicus， though hemight have shouted aloud and no other mortal would haveheard him.
“I do remember one little trifle of news，” said he. “OldMr. Higginbotham of Kimballton was murdered in hisorchard at eight o’clock last night by an Irishman and anigger. They strung him up to the branch of a St. Michael’spear tree where nobody would find him till the morning.”
As soon as this horrible intelligence was communicatedthe stranger betook himself to his journey again withmore speed than ever， not even turning his head whenDominicus invited him to smoke a Spanish cigar andrelate all the particulars. The pedler whistled to his mareand went up the hill， pondering on the doleful fate of Mr.
Higginbotham， whom he had known in the way of trade，having sold him many a bunch of long nines and a greatdeal of pig-tail， lady’s twist and fig tobacco. He was ratherastonished at the rapidity with which the news had spread.
Kimballton was nearly sixty miles distant in a straight line；the murder had been perpetrated only at eight o’clockthe preceding night， yet Dominicus had heard of it atseven in the morning， when， in all probability， poor Mr.
Higginbotham’s own family had but just discovered hiscorpse hanging on the St. Michael’s pear tree. The strangeron foot must have worn seven-league boots， to travel atsuch a rate.
“Ill-news flies fast， they say，” thought Dominicus Pike，“but this beats railroads. The fellow ought to be hired togo express with the President’s message.”
The difficulty was solved by supposing that thenarrator had made a mistake of one day in the date ofthe occurrence； so that our friend did not hesitate tointroduce the story at every tavern and country-storealong the road， expending a whole bunch of Spanishwrappers among at least twenty horrified audiences.
He found himself invariably the first bearer of theintelligence， and was so pestered with questions thathe could not avoid filling up the outline till it becamequite a respectable narrative. He met with one piece ofcorroborative evidence. Mr. Higginbotham was a trader，and a former clerk of his to whom Dominicus related thefacts testified that the old gentleman was accustomed toreturn home through the orchard about nightfall with themoney and valuable papers of the store in his pocket. Theclerk manifested but little grief at Mr. Higginbotham’scatastrophe， hinting—what the pedler had discovered inhis own dealings with him—that he was a crusty old fellowas close as a vise. His property would descend to a prettyniece who was now keeping school in Kimballton.
