Once landed in the United States, the question of what to do arose, and Martin decided to invest his savings in buying land in the rising township of New Eden.

“Mark, you shall be a partner in the business,” said Martin (Mark having invested L37 to Martin’s L8); “an equal partner with myself.  We are no longer master and servant.  I will put in, as my additional capital, my professional knowledge, and half the annual profits, as long as it is carried on, shall be yours.  Our business shall be commenced, as soon as we get to New Eden, under the name of Chuzzlewit and Tapley.”

“Lord love you, sir,” cried Mark, “don’t have my name in it!  I must be ‘Co.,’ I must.”

“You shall have your own way, Mark.”

“Thank ’ee sir!  If any country gentleman thereabouts in the public way wanted such a thing as a skittle-ground made, I could take that part of the bis’ness, sir.”

It was a long steamboat journey, but at last they stopped at Eden.  The waters of the Deluge might have left it but a week ago, so choked with slime and matted growth was the hideous swamp which bore that name.

A man advanced towards them when they landed, walking slowly, leaning on a stick.

“Strangers!” he exclaimed.

“The very same,” said Mark.  “How are you, sir?”

“I’ve had the fever very bad,” he answered faintly.  “I haven’t stood upright these many weeks.  My eldest son has a chill upon him.  My youngest died last week.”

“I’m sorry for it, governor, with all my heart!” said Mark.  “The goods is safe enough,” he added, turning to Martin, and pointing to their boxes.  “There ain’t many people about to make away with ’em.  What a comfort that is!”

“No,” cried the man; “we’ve buried most of ’em.  The rest have gone away.  Them that we have here don’t come out at night.”

“The night air ain’t quite wholesome, I suppose?” said Mark.

“It’s deadly poison,” was the answer.

Mark showed no more uneasiness than if it had been commended to him as ambrosia; but he gave the man his arm, and as they went along explained the nature of their purchase, and inquired where it lay.  Close to his own log-house, he said.

It was a miserable cabin, rudely constructed of the trunks of trees, the door of which had either fallen down or been carried away.  When they had brought up their chest, Martin gave way, and lay down on the ground, and wept aloud.

“Lord love you, sir,” cried Mr. Tapley.  “Don’t do that.  Anything but that!  It never helped man, woman, or child over the lowest fence yet, sir, and it never will.”

Mark stole out gently in the morning while his companion slept, and took a rough survey of the settlement.  There were not above a score of cabins in the whole, and half of these appeared untenanted.  Their own land was mere forest.  He went down to the landing-place, where they had left their goods, and there he found some half a dozen men, wan and forlorn, who helped him to carry them to the log-house.