What with telling the news for the public good anddriving bargains for his own， Dominicus was so muchdelayed on the road that he chose to put up at a tavernabout five miles short of Parker’s Falls. After supper，lighting one of his prime cigars， he seated himself in thebar-room and went through the story of the murder，which had grown so fast that it took him half an hourto tell. There were as many as twenty people in theroom， nineteen of whom received it all for gospel. Butthe twentieth was an elderly farmer who had arrived onhorseback a short time before and was now seated in acorner， smoking his pipe. When the story was concluded，he rose up very deliberately， brought his chair right infront of Dominicus and stared him full in the face， puffingout the vilest tobacco-smoke the pedler had ever smelt.
“Will you make affidavit，” demanded he， in the tone ofa country-justice taking an examination， “that old SquireHigginbotham of Kimballton was murdered in his orchardthe night before last and found hanging on his great peartree yesterday morning？”
“I tell the story as I heard it， mister，” answered Dominicus，dropping his half-burnt cigar. “I don’t say that I saw thething done， so I can’t take my oath that he was murderedexactly in that way.”
“But I can take mine，” said the farmer， “that if SquireHigginbotham was murdered night before last I dranka glass of bitters with his ghost this morning. Being aneighbor of mine， he called me into his store as I wasriding by， and treated me， and then asked me to do a littlebusiness for him on the road. He didn’t seem to know anymore about his own murder than I did.”
“Why， then it can’t be a fact！” exclaimed DominicusPike.
“I guess he’d have mentioned， if it was，” said the oldfarmer； and he removed his chair back to the corner，leaving Dominicus quite down in the mouth.
Here was a sad resurrection of old Mr. Higginbotham！
The pedler had no heart to mingle in the conversationany more， but comforted himself with a glass of gin andwater and went to bed， where all night long he dreamed ofhanging on the St. Michael’s pear tree.
To avoid the old farmer （whom he so detested thathis suspension would have pleased him better than Mr.
Higginbotham’s）， Dominicus rose in the gray of themorning， put the little mare into the green cart andtrotted swiftly away toward Parker’s Falls. The fresh breeze，the dewy road and the pleasant summer dawn revived hisspirits， and might have encouraged him to repeat the oldstory had there been anybody awake to bear it， but hemet neither ox-team， light wagon， chaise， horseman norfoot-traveller till， just as he crossed Salmon River， a mancame trudging down to the bridge with a bundle over hisshoulder， on the end of a stick.
“Good-morning， mister，” said the pedler， reining in hismare. “If you come from Kimballton or that neighborhood，maybe you can tell me the real fact about this affair of oldMr. Higginbotham. Was the old fellow actually murderedtwo or three nights ago by an Irishman and a nigger？”
Dominicus had spoken in too great a hurry to observeat first that the stranger himself had a deep tinge of negroblood. On hearing this sudden question the Ethiopianappeared to change his skin， its yellow hue becoming aghastly white， while， shaking and stammering， he thusreplied：
“No， no！ There was no colored man. It was an Irishmanthat hanged him last night at eight o’clock； I came away atseven. His folks can’t have looked for him in the orchardyet.”
Scarcely had the yellow man spoken， when he
interrupted himself and， though he seemed weary enoughbefore， continued his journey at a pace which wouldhave kept the pedler’s mare on a smart trot. Dominicusstared after him in great perplexity. If the murder had notbeen committed till Tuesday night， who was the prophetthat had foretold it in all its circumstances on Tuesdaymorning？ If Mr. Higginbotham’s corpse were not yetdiscovered by his own family， how came the mulatto， atabove thirty miles’ distance， to know that he was hangingin the orchard， especially as he had left Kimballton beforethe unfortunate man was hanged at all？ These ambiguouscircumstances， with the stranger’s surprise and terror，made Dominicus think of raising a hue-and-cry after himas an accomplice in the murder， since a murder， it seemed，had really been perpetrated.
“But let the poor devil go，” thought the pedler. “I don’twant his black blood on my head， and hanging the niggerwouldn’t unhang Mr. Higginbotham. Unhang the oldgentleman？ It’s a sin， I know， but I should hate to havehim come to life a second time and give me the lie.”
With these meditations Dominicus Pike drove into thestreet of Parker’s Falls， which， as everybody knows， is asthriving a village as three cotton-factories and a slittingmillcan make it. The machinery was not in motion andbut a few of the shop doors unbarred when he alighted inthe stable-yard of the tavern and made it his first businessto order the mare four quarts of oats. His second duty， ofcourse， was to impart Mr. Higginbotham’s catastrophe tothe hostler. He deemed it advisable， however， not to betoo positive as to the date of the direful fact， and also tobe uncertain whether it were perpetrated by an Irishmanand a mulatto or by the son of Erin alone. Neither did heprofess to relate it on his own authority or that of any oneperson， but mentioned it as a report generally diffused.
The story ran through the town like fire among girdledtrees， and became so much the universal talk that nobodycould tell whence it had originated. Mr. Higginbotham wasas well known at Parker’s Falls as any citizen of the place，being part-owner of the slitting-mill and a considerablestockholder in the cotton-factories. The inhabitants felttheir own prosperity interested in his fate. Such was theexcitement that the Parker’s Falls Gazette anticipated itsregular day of publication， and came out with half a formof blank paper and a column of double pica emphasizedwith capitals and headed “HORRID MURDER OF
