Every year, the more restless and ambitious
young men of all classes swarmed away to
regions where industry was more active. In
a word, "our town" was the quietest,
sleepiest collection of plodding, saving, non-
speculating folks, whose utmost efforts
enabled them to keep the town-pump in
repair, and the roof of the town-hall water-tight; but, who could never be induced to raise
money enough to build a much needed pier,
or to remit the town dues, in order to induce
a steamboat— a recent innovation which passed
our port— to call in  and open up competition
with the slow sailing coasters on which we
were dependent for communication with the
next  town.

Into this English Sleepy Hollow, there
came one day— whether by land or water, in
a fishing-boat, or on his sturdy legs, never
was known— a tall, thin, pale, bronzed,
soldier-like looking man, between forty and
fifty years of age: with one hand, and an
iron hook screwed on a wooden block where
his other should have been; scantily dressed
in a half-soiled, half gamekeeper suit.

A party, including the parson, the doctor,
and my master, Mr. Closeleigh, were going out
shooting over a famous woodcock cover, and
were lamenting aloud the absence of old Phil
Snare— the best beater in the county— when
the one-armed man offered his services, in a
manner so neat, civil, and respectful, that,
although there was a slight taste of brogue
in his accent, and ours was a county where
wandering Irishmen were not held in much
favour, they were accepted. A long hazel
wand was soon in his hand; and, before the
day was over, it was universally acknowleged
that one-handed Peter was the best
beater, and the most amusing handy fellow,
that any of the party had ever known.
According to his story, he was a pensioned
soldier proceeding to visit a relation whom he
hoped to find well settled at a town a hundred
miles to the north. A glass of grog opened
his mouth, and he related with great tact a
few of his adventures.

From that day, Peter became the odd-man
of the town, and every one wondered how we
had done so long without so useful a
personage. He carried letters, he cleaned guns,
he manufactured flies for fishing, he doctored
dogs, he brought the messages of wives—
wrapped in a droll envelope of his own— to
dilatory husbands delaying at club dinners;
he took the place of the doctor's boy and
the lawyer's, too; was always ready with a
grave face and a droll answer; was never
tired, and seldom in a hurry. He walked in
and out of all houses like a tame cat, and
made a capital living, as all people do who
manage to become the indispensable solvers
of difficulties.

In a very short time Peter had emerged, a
very butterfly, from the grub or chrysalis
state. The ragged shooting-jacket was
discarded for a green coat of loose fit and
many pockets, smart enough for my Lord
Browse's head gamekeeper. An open waistcoat
displayed highly respectable linen; from
head to foot he showed the advantage of
being on good credit with the best tradesmen;
and yet he owned no master. He began to
give up carrying messages, except for the
"fust of the quality;" had a staff of boys, to
whom he gave orders; and, when out on a
shooting party, carried a capital gun— the
property of a sporting publican— with the
air of one who came out purely for health,
exercise, and sport; and not the least like the
half-starved ragged creature who had been too
happy to sleep in a barn, and accept a plate
of broken meat.

But, the favour in which Peter was held
was not confined to our sportsmen; he seemed
equally taken into the confidence of those who
never handled a gun or threw a fly. He
began with the smallest tradesmen, but
grew daily more indispensable to our most
topping shopkeepers. Mr. Tammy, the draper
in the market-place, who always wore a
white cravat and pumps, was seen walking
in his garden with Peter for an hour one
evening, by Miss Spark, who peeped through
a hole in the garden door; and she declared
that Peter at parting patted Tammy on the
back— yet he was churchwarden that year!
This story was at first disbelieved, although
it was remarked that Peter's improvement
in hosiery dated from that garden walk.
Soon afterwards, Kinine, our head chemist
and druggist, a great orator at parish meetings,
and a scientific authority, was observed
by his errand-boy studying geography, with
a large map before him: over which Peter's
iron hook travelled with great rapidity.
From that time, the whole town seemed
seized with a rage for refreshing its geographical
studies. Spain and Portugal were the
special localities in favour; the demand for
books on the Peninsular War became great
at the circulating library; and the bookseller
in the market received orders for not less
than three Portuguese dictionaries, in one
week.

As for Peter, he became a lion of the first
magnitude. He breakfasted with Smoker,
the sporting publican— dined with Tiles the
shoemaker— took tea with Jolly the butcher
— supped with Kinine the druggist— and
held chats with Smooth the barber, and Mr.
Closeleigh himself. Ostensibly, he was asked
to relate the stories of his campaigns,
which he did with great unction; and,
strangely enough, people never seemed tired
of hearing of Peter's marches, Peter's battles,
and how Peter lost his hand. It was
remarked by the curious, that these battle
stories always ended in Peter's being taken
mysteriously into some back parlour or
garden, there to whisper for an hour or
two with the head of the house over a pipe
and strong waters; though no one ever
saw Peter the worse for liquor. No, Peter