He stepped
out to see who was there. A black man was holding a black horse which
neighed and stamped with impatience.
"Tom, you're come for!" said the black fellow, gruffly. Tom shrunk
back, but too late. He had left his little Bible at the bottom of his
coat pocket, and his big Bible on the desk buried under the mortgage he
was about to foreclose: never was sinner taken more unawares. The black
man whisked him like a child astride the horse and away he galloped in
the midst of a thunder-storm. The clerks stuck their pens behind their
ears and stared after him from the windows. Away went Tom Walker,
dashing down the street; his white cap bobbing up and down; his
morning-gown fluttering in the wind, and his steed striking fire out of
the pavement at every bound. When the clerks turned to look for the
black man he had disappeared.
Tom Walker never returned to foreclose the mortgage. A countryman who
lived on the borders of the swamp, reported that in the height of the
thunder-gust he had heard a great clattering of hoofs and a howling
along the road, and that when he ran to the window he just caught sight
of a figure, such as I have described, on a horse that galloped like
mad across the fields, over the hills and down into the black hemlock
swamp towards the old Indian fort; and that shortly after a
thunder-bolt fell in that direction which seemed to set the whole
forest in a blaze.
The good people of Boston shook their heads and shrugged their
shoulders, but had been so much accustomed to witches and goblins and
tricks of the devil in all kinds of shapes from the first settlement of
the colony, that they were not so much horror-struck as might have been
expected.
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