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“That is my man, sure,” said Dennis. “Trumbull, Trumbull, but it was his ship on which I sailed from Derry, and that was lost.”

“He has lost two ships before. It is strange that a man whose meal-chest is open to all should be so unfortunate. It don’t seem to accord with the laws of Providence. I sometimes doubt that he is as good as all the people think him to be.”

“But the fruits of life are not money-making, your Honor. A man’s influence on others is the fruit of life, and what he is and does. A man is worth just what his soul is worth, and not less or more. He is the man that I am after, for sure. How does one get to his house?”

“The open road from Norwich leads straight by his house, all the way to Boston, through Windham County, where lately the frogs had a great battle, and millions of them were slain.”

Dennis opened his eyes.

“Faix?”

“Faix, stranger. Yes, yes; I have just written an account of the battle, to be published in England. After the frogs had a battle, the caterpillars had another, and then the hills at a place called Moodus began to rumble and quake, and become colicky and cough. This is a strange country.