In those days which seem so far away—­and yet the space between them and us is spanned by a lifetime of threescore years and ten—­ life was simpler in all its details; yet such towns as Boston, already old, had well established local customs which varied not at all from year to year; many of which lingered in later phases of urban growth.  In Boston, or at least in that part of Boston where my wife’s family dwelt, it was the invariable custom for the head of the family to go to market in the early morning with his wife’s list of the day’s needs.  When the list was filled, the articles were placed in a basket; and the baskets thus filled were systematically deposited by the marketboys at the back door of the house to which they were consigned.  Then the housekeeper came to the back door at her convenience, and took the basket in.  Exposed as this position must have been, such a thing as a theft of the day’s edibles was unknown, and the first authentic account of any illegitimate handling of the baskets brings me to the introduction of my wife’s uncle.

It was on a summer morning, as far as I can find out, that a little butcher boy—­a very little butcher boy to be driving so big a cart—­stopped in the rear of two houses that stood close together in a suburban street.  One of these houses belonged to my wife’s father, who was, from all I can gather, a very pompous, severe, and generally objectionable old gentleman; a Judge, and a very considerable dignitary, who apparently devoted all his leisure to making life miserable for his family.  The other was owned by a comparatively poor and unimportant man, who did a shipping business in a small way.  He had bought it during a period of temporary affluence, and it hung on his hands like a white elephant.  He could not sell it, and it was turning his hair gray to pay the taxes on it.  On this particular morning he had got up at four o’clock to go down to the wharves to see if a certain ship in which he was interested had arrived.  It was due and overdue, and its arrival would settle the question of his domestic comfort for the whole year; for if it failed to appear, or came home with an empty bottom, his fate would be hard indeed; but if it brought him money or marketable goods from its long Oriental trip, he might take heart of grace and look forward to better times.

When the butcher’s boy stopped at the house of my wife’s father, he set down at the back-door a basket containing fish, a big joint of roast beef, and a generous load of fruit and vegetables, including some fine, fat oranges.  At the other door he left a rather unpromising-looking lump of steak and a half-peck of potatoes, not of the first quality.  When he had deposited these two burdens he ran back and started his cart up the road.

But he looked back as he did so, and he saw a sight familiar to him, and saw the commission of a deed entirely unfamiliar.  A handsome young boy of about his own age stepped out of the back-door of my wife’s father’s house and looked carelessly around him.  He was one of the boys who compel the admiration of all other boys—­strong, sturdy, and a trifle arrogant.