The cattle and Lightfoot safely bestowed for
the night, Samuel Cheeseboro, having secured his
bed at the State Arms, sallied forth to view the
town, with a certain sense of Bohemian delight
incident to the first visit of a countryman to the
metropolis.
"Go look at the Province House, master," advised his new landlord. "'Tis the finest house in town, as befits the dwelling of a real live lord."
"What! Sir William Stoughton?"
"No, but the Earl of Belmont, my Lord Belmont, as he's to be called. Have never you heard down in Connecticut of my lord's appointment?"
"Nay, we've heard naught of the grandees since Sir William Phipps was sent home to England to answer for malpractice in office," replied Cheeseboro dryly, and the landlord laughed with a relish, for the imp of independence was already born in the American colonies, although it took some half century to bring it to maturity.
The next day was market day, and before noon Samuel Cheeseboro had sold his beasts to good advantage, refused more than one offer for Lightfoot, paid his score at the State Arms, and set out for Hingham, where he intended to pass a night with the Hobart family, and carry to the widow of the Rev. Peter Plobart his mother's love and a little pot of rose-conserve, which had been a great trouble to him upon the road, as his entire luggage consisted of a horseman's knapsack strapped to the back of his saddle. This knapsack, furthermore,
