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A man is
not necessarily a philanthropist, it seems, because he tills the
soil. I did not hire out again. I did odd jobs to earn my meals,
and slept in the fields at night, still turning over in my mind
how to get across the sea. An incident of those wanderings comes to
mind while I am writing. They were carting in hay, and when night
came on, somewhere about Mount Vernon, I gathered an armful of
wisps that had fallen from the loads, and made a bed for myself
in a wagon-shed by the roadside. In the middle of the night I was
awakened by a loud outcry. A fierce light shone in my face. It was
the lamp of a carriage that had been driven into the shed. I was
lying between the horse's feet unhurt. A gentleman sprang from the
carriage, more frightened than I, and bent over me. When he found
that I had suffered no injury, he put his hand in his pocket and
held out a silver quarter.
"Go," he said, "and drink it up."
"Drink it up yourself!" I shouted angrily. "What do you take me
for?"
They were rather high heroics, seeing where I was, but he saw
nothing to laugh at.


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