“She didn’t like to give it to them, eh?”

“Well, I should say not.  She didn’t set with his views, exactly—­never did.  He took the pork, though—­it was right in the coldest weather we had that winter—­and hauled it back about seven miles here to where they lived, and handed it all out himself.  Course they were awful hard up, but then they might ‘a’ got along without it.  They do now, sometimes.  Charlie’s too good that way.  It’s his one fault, if you might so speak of it.”

I smiled as the evidence accumulated.  Houseless wayfarers, stopping to find food and shelter under his roof, an orphan child carried seven miles on foot from the bedside of a dead mother and cared for all winter, three children, besides two of his own, being raised out of a sense of affection and care for the fatherless.

One day in the local post office I was idling a half hour with the postmaster, when I again inquired: 

“Do you know Charlie Potter?”

“I should think I did.  Charlie Potter and I sailed together for something over eleven years.”

“How do you mean sailed together?”

“We were on the same schooner.  This used to be a great port for mackerel and cod.  We were wrecked once together”

“How was that?”

“Oh, we went on rocks.”

“Any lives lost?”

“No, but there came mighty near being.  We helped each other in the boat.  I remember Charlie was the last one in that time.  Wouldn’t get in until all the rest were safe.”

A sudden resolution came to me.

“Do you know where he is now?”

“Yes, he’s up in Norwich, preaching or doing missionary work.  He’s kind of busy all the time among the poor people, and so on.  Never makes much of anything out of it for himself, but just likes to do it, I guess.”

“Do you know how he manages to live?”

“No, I don’t, exactly.  He believes in trusting to Providence for what he needs.  He works though, too, at one job and another.  He’s a carpenter for one thing.  Got an idea the Lord will send ’im whatever he needs.”

“Well, and does He?”

“Well, he lives.”  A little later he added: 

“Oh, yes.  There’s nothing lazy about Charlie.  He’s a good worker.  When he was in the fishing line here there wasn’t a man worked harder than he did.  They can’t anybody lay anything like that against him.”

“Is he very difficult to talk to?” I asked, meditating on seeking him out.  I had so little to do at the time, the very idlest of summers, and the reports of this man’s deeds were haunting me.  I wanted to discover for myself whether he was real or not—­whether the reports were true.  The Samaritan in people is so easily exaggerated at times.

“Oh, no.  He’s one of the finest men that way I ever knew.  You could see him, well enough, if you went up to Norwich, providing he’s up there.  He usually is, though, I think.  He lives there with his wife and mother, you know.”