The clouds were darkening, and the shower was evidently not far off. It was a solitary place, and no houses were to be seen near by. But nearly a quarter of a mile back Harry caught sight of a small house, and jumping over the fence directed his steps toward it. Five minutes brought him to it. It was small, painted red, originally, but the color had mostly been washed away. It was not upon a public road, but there was a narrow lane leading to it from the highway. Probably it was occupied by a poor family, Harry thought. Still it would shelter him from the storm which had even now commenced.
He knocked at the door.
Immediately it was opened and a face peered out--the face of a man advanced in years. It was thin, wrinkled, and haggard. The thin white hair, uncombed, gave a wild appearance to the owner, who, in a thin, shrill voice, demanded, "Who are you?"
"My name is Harry Walton."
"What do you want?"
"Shelter from the storm. It is going to rain."
"Come in," said the old man, and opening the door wider, he admitted our hero.
Harry found himself in a room very bare of furniture, but there was a log fire in the fireplace, and this looked comfortable and pleasant. He laid down his bundle, and drawing up a chair sat down by it, his host meanwhile watching him closely.
"Does he live alone, I wonder?" thought Harry.
He saw no other person about, and no traces of a woman's presence. The floor looked as if it had not been swept for a month, and probably it had not.
The old man sat down opposite Harry, and stared at him, till our hero felt somewhat embarrassed and uncomfortable.
"Why don't he say something?" thought Harry.
"He is a very queer old man."
After a while his host spoke.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked.
"No," said Harry, looking at him.
"You've heard of me often," pursued the old man.
"I didn't know it," answered Harry, beginning to feel curious.
"In history," added the other.
"In history?"
"Yes."
Harry began to look at him in increased surprise.
"Will you tell me your name, if it is not too much trouble," he asked, politely.
"I gained the victory of New Orleans," said the old man.
"I thought General Jackson did that," said Harry.
"You're right," said the old man, complacently. "I am General Jackson."
"But General Jackson is dead."
"That's a mistake," said the old man, quietly. "That's what they say in all the books, but it isn't true."
This was amusing, but it was also startling. Harry knew now that the old man was crazy, or at least a monomaniac, and, though he seemed harmless enough, it was of course possible that he might be dangerous. He was almost sorry that he had sought shelter here. Better have encountered the storm in its full fury than place himself in the power of a maniac. The rain was now falling in thick drops, and he decided at any rate to remain a while longer. He knew that it would not be well to dispute the old man, and resolved to humor his delusion.
"You were President once, I believe?" he asked.
"Yes," said the old man; "and you won't tell anybody, will you?"
"No."
"I mean to be again," said the old man in a low voice, half in a whisper. "But you mustn't say anything about it. They'd try to kill me, if they knew it."
"Who would?"
"Mr. Henry Clay, and the rest of them."
"Doesn't Henry Clay want you to be President again?"
"Of course not. He wants to be President himself. That's why I'm hiding. They don't any of them know where I am. You won't tell, will you?"
"No."
"You might meet Henry Clay, you know."
Harry smiled to himself. It didn't seem very likely that he would ever find himself in such distinguished company, for Henry Clay was at that time living, and a United States Senator.
"What made you come here, General Jackson?" he inquired.
............
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