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Upon a tall cottonwood-tree on the river-bank, and nearly in front of Wardelow's residence, was an immense signboard bearing the name of "New Boston Landing," and on the other side of the river, at a ferry-staging belonging to a crossing whose other terminus was a mile further down the river, was a sign which informed travelers that persons wishing to go to New Boston would find a skiff marked "Wardelow" tied near the staging.
The solid business men of the neighboring town of Mount Pisgah, situated upon a bluff, voted him a fool whenever his name was mentioned; but the wives of these same men, when they chanced to see old Wardelow passing by, with the wistful face he always wore, looked after him tenderly, and never lost an opportunity to speak to him kindly.
The cemetery which the thoughtful projectors of New Boston had presented to the inhabitants had for its only occupant the wife of old Wardelow; and she had been conveyed thereto by a husband who was both young and handsome.
Although he was intelligent, industrious, ingenious, and owned a library which passed for quite a large one in those days and in the new West, he cared to talk on only one subject, and as that was of no particular interest to other people, and became, in the course of time, extremely stale to those who did not like it, the people of Mount Pisgah and the adjoining country did not spend more time upon old Wardelow than was required by the necessities of business.
Every steamboat captain on the river knew the old man, and the roughest of them had cheerfuly replied in the affirmative when asked if they wouldn't bring up a small boy who might some day come on board, report himself as Stevie Wardelow, and ask to be taken to New Boston.
What's your name?" "I'll give you five hundred dollars to let me off you may holler for help and tie my hand, and " "No use speak quick," hissed the preacher "what's your name?" "Stephen Wardelow," gasped the thief. "What!" roared the preacher, loosening his grasp, but instantly tightening it again. "Stephen Wardelow," replied the thief. "But I haven't got any messages to send to anybody.
When one after another of the city's "plots," upon which deserted houses stood, were sold for default in payment of taxes, old Wardelow bought them himself they always went for a song, and the old man preferred to own them, lest some one else might destroy the ruins, and thus make the place unfamiliar to the returning wanderer. Of friends he had almost none.
And so, following the example of most of his predecessors on the Mount Pisgah circuit, he paid many a visit to old Wardelow, to learn strength from this perfect example of patient faith.
When they met at tea-parties, or quilting-bees, or sewing-societies, or in other gatherings exclusively feminine, there were not a few of them who had the courage to say that the world would be better if more men were like old Wardelow. For love seemed the sole motive of old Wardelow's life.
Among the Mount Pisgah merchants there was one who had never had a child of his own who always pressed the old man's hand warmly, and admitted the possibility of whatever new hope Wardelow might express.
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