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Into the sugar-house they went. The small room was hot and steamy, and in the middle of it in a zinc-lined tank the foaming sap was boiling furiously. Beside it stood McMasters, Mr. Carlton's foreman, a thermometer in his hand. "Good-morning, Mr. Bob," he said. "So you are coming to cast an eye on the maple-sugar! Last week we made syrup and bottled it. Not a bad day's work, eh?"
McMasters, a vestryman in the church, was really the head and front of that project. Peter went after Mr. McMasters, and found him in his grocery store one of those long, dim country stores that sell everything from cradles to coffins. Mr. McMasters came from behind the counter, rubbing his hands. "Well, Peter, what can I do for you this mawnin'?" he asked, jovially. He was that sort.
A glance at the map of the Union will show how very widely our smaller literary centres are scattered; and perhaps it will be useful in following me to other more populous literary centres. Dropping southward from New York, now, we find ourselves in a literary centre of importance at Philadelphia, since that is the home of Mr. J. B. McMasters, the historian of the American people; of Mr.
Peter met the angry eyes unflinchingly. "I reckon you'd better understand I'm not going to any orphan-asylum, Mr. McMasters. I'm going to stay right here at home. And you are not going to get my cove lot," he added shrewdly. "What do I care where you go? And who wants your old strip of sand and cockspurs? Get to hell out o' here!" yelled Mr. McMasters, violently. Peter marched out.
He had, however, been very successful in laying the foundation for probing many things which might be of vast importance in the future. "When he left home he first went to New York and had an interview with McMasters and B. Wudd, who were the leading spirits in New York, and one of them the principal man North in starting the organization.
In the one I reached the ninety and nine unconverted, while in the other I must talk principally to those who were rooted and grounded in the faith. So I continued my connection with the Journal until I met James McMasters, a prominent abolitionist, who said sorrowfully: "Well, the last number of the Albatross will be issued on Thursday." "Is it possible?" "Possible and true!
"I shall prefer charges, you understand," almost savagely. "Helm, give this fellow that extra rifle, and ammunition belt. McMasters, you will let him have your horse." Wasson rolled out of his saddle, muttering something indistinctly, which might have been an oath. "I ain't goin' ter stand fer that, Leftenant," he said defiantly.
He managed to obtain a letter of introduction from McMasters to the leading Knights of the Golden Circle in Canada; this letter introduced him as William Jackson, of Memphis, Tenn., and was directed to the Hon. Jacob Thomlinson.
A glance at the map of the Union will show how very widely our smaller literary centres are scattered; and perhaps it will be useful in following me to other more populous literary centres. Dropping southward from New York, now, we find ourselves in a literary centre of importance at Philadelphia, since that is the home of Mr. J. B. McMasters, the historian of the American people; of Mr.
McMasters, when he said: "Nonsense!" then reflected a little, and added, "Well, I do not know after all but it would be a good idea. Riddle makes lots of money out of your letters." When we had talked about five minutes, he turned to attend to business and I went to the Journal office. I found Mr.
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