I caught an afternoon boat for New London and Norwich at one-thirty, and arrived in Norwich at five.  The narrow streets of the thriving little mill city were alive with people.  I had no address, could not obtain one, but through the open door of a news-stall near the boat landing I called to the proprietor: 

“Do you know any one in Norwich by the name of Charlie Potter?”

“The man who works around among the poor people here?”

“That’s the man.”

“Yes, I know him.  He lives out on Summer Street, Number Twelve, I think.  You’ll find it in the city directory.”

The ready reply was rather astonishing.  Norwich has something like thirty thousand people.

I walked out in search of Summer Street and finally found a beautiful lane of that name climbing upward over gentle slopes, arched completely with elms.  Some of the pretty porches of the cottages extended nearly to the sidewalk.  Hammocks, rocking-chairs on verandas, benches under the trees—­all attested the love of idleness and shade in summer.  Only the glimpse of mills and factories in the valley below evidenced the grimmer life which gave rise mayhap to the need of a man to work among the poor.

“Is this Summer Street?” I inquired of an old darky who was strolling cityward in the cool of the evening.  An umbrella was under his arm and an evening paper under his spectacled nose.

“Bress de Lord!” he said, looking vaguely around.  “Ah couldn’t say.  Ah knows dat street—­been on it fifty times—­but Ah never did know de name.  Ha, ha, ha!”

The hills about echoed his hearty laugh.

“You don’t happen to know Charlie Potter?”

“Oh, yas, sah.  Ah knows Charlie Potter.  Dat’s his house right ovah dar.”

The house in which Charlie Potter lived was a two-story frame, overhanging a sharp slope, which descended directly to the waters of the pretty river below.  For a mile or more, the valley of the river could be seen, its slopes dotted with houses, the valley itself lined with mills.  Two little girls were upon the sloping lawn to the right of the house.  A stout, comfortable-looking man was sitting by a window on the left side of the house, gazing out over the valley.

“Is this where Charlie Potter lives?” I inquired of one of the children.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did he live in Noank?”

“Yes, sir.”

Just then a pleasant-faced woman of forty-five or fifty issued from a vine-covered door.

“Mr. Potter?” she replied to my inquiry.  “He’ll be right out.”

She went about some little work at the side of the house, and in a moment Charlie Potter appeared.  He was short, thick-set, and weighed no less than two hundred pounds.  His face and hands were sunburned and brown like those of every fisherman of Noank.  An old wrinkled coat and a baggy pair of gray trousers clothed his form loosely.  Two inches of a spotted, soft-brimmed hat were pulled carelessly over his eyes.  His face was round and full, but slightly seamed.  His hands were large, his walk uneven, and rather inclined to a side swing, or the sailor’s roll.  He seemed an odd, pudgy person for so large a fame.