Longfellow thumbed through the iron chase of over 60,000 names and addresses of Boston residents who had ever subscribed to a Ticknor & Fields publication. Longfellow sighed and looked up from his task at the four rows of metal bins containing past copies of the firm's publications, which created two wide lanes Fields had christened "Holmes Hole" and "Longfellow Avenue."

"Mr. Longfellow," William Dean Howells exclaimed as he stepped into the cellar from the main floor. "What a surprise to find you in town so many hours before the banquet!"

"Yes," Longfellow smiled. "But what brings you in, Mr. Howells?"

"Fields has been running rampant back and forth from Parker's all day. So I have been finalizing the latest number of the Atlantic. Is there something I can help you with while I'm about?"

"I was hoping Fields's titanic roll of addresses had one that I could not locate in our city directory, but I'm afraid it has met its match."

"Something important?"

Longfellow attempted an unconvincing shrug.

"My dear Longfellow," Howells tried again, "if it is something for which I can be assistance, I would be more than happy...?"

"I'm afraid you will think me quite foolish if I were to explain, Mr. Howells. But I have been thinking much about the man we saw brought down so violently at the Governor's affair in December. It is greedy, I know, yet I crave more knowledge of him. Enough to begin to understand, perhaps. At least someday."

"There is someone you believe may be able to help you with that?"

"Yes, well I have a name of a friend from Arnold's wife. But she knows only his general neighborhood."

"Well, then," Howells said, "I would be happy to take a ramble with you, if you would permit the company. Perhaps we shall find someone in the area who can point us in the right direction. After all, Fields shall have my head if I leave you with anything but the most carefree thoughts for the Dante banquet tonight."

Howells and Longfellow had stopped at two apartments on Griffin's Wharf, the sloped neighborhood in the Northern District Mrs. Arnold had specified. But neither household had heard of Ellis Galvin, the name given to Longfellow by Mrs. Arnold.

"Perhaps we should turn back," Longfellow said, "the day is passing quickly."

Howells soaked the sweat from his neck and chin with a handkerchief. "Well, here's a fellow we can ask," Howells spied an old man draped in an inordinately heavy blue cloak, doing his best to determine the girth of an elm tree with a ratty tape measure. "Perhaps we should try him, and then yield our purpose if he is of no help."

Howells politely stopped the ancient man, who showed an open mouth and inquiring eye as he redirected his attentions towards the pair.

"Galvin, you say? Oh, yes, yes!" the man laughed (or cried, it was difficult to discern which), shaking his wild, gray beard. "Galvin, yes, he lives with his sister, not far from my own home."

Howells directed a triumphant side-smile at Longfellow.

"Well, would you do us the kindly service of pointing us there, good sir?" Howells asked.

The man put a single finger to his open mouth, and let the lid close shut over his left eye, which it now seemed he had only opened to give a good impression to the strangers. "You gentlemen are not from here, then?"

"Well, not exactly," Howells said. "We are from Cambridge."

"Why, then you must know the Washington Elm!" the man laughed or cried again. "Yes, yes, the Washington Elm! This little beauty," the man patted the tree he had been measuring, "does not have the girth of your Washington, but it tries, it tries."

Howells straightened his upper lip against his crescent mustache. "I'm afraid we have only the most limited time for conversation, sir. But we would like very much to find Mr. Galvin, if you please."

The ancient's good eye drooped, and his mouth hung open loosely in disappointment. Howells shrugged helplessly at his companion poet.

"Of course," Longfellow noted gently, "we have admired the Washington Elm in the Cambridge Commons many a time, sir."

"As a point of fact," the ancient said, "I have a branch of that great tree you so admire!"

"Is that so?" Howells said with a shortness meant to put an end to the topic.

"Quite so!" hollered the ancient gaily. "I will tell you what, my friends, if you come down to my house with me, I shall give you a piece!"

"A piece?" Howells repeated.

"A piece of the branch of the famous Washington Elm!"

"Really," Longfellow said, "that is very kind of you but..."

"You see, we must speak to Mr. Galvin so we can be on our way, my good sir," Howells insisted.

"Come, come, I live very near to Hannah Galvin; we shall stop at my house on the way and get your piece of the branch first! I insist upon it!"

The interior of the ancient man's unsteady cabin seemed more like a wood barn or outbuilding than a home. The scanty furniture, which had once been showy, was old and dirty, the carpet ragged. The flies buzzing in the sun were meeting an untimely death in the webs of the spiders who seemed to have retained undisputed possession of the windows. In the center of the room sat a small workbench.

"Washington had a large hand," the ancient explained as he dug through a box of tools behind the bench. "Which is an excellent sign. Assassins always have small hands. Napoleon, the most wholesale of assassins, had a very small hand."

Howells could not help studying his hand and wondering how it compared to the size of an average assassin's.

The ancient positioned his heavy, rotting tree branch of five or six feet in length on the bench, which from a profusion of crumbs appeared to be where he also ate his meals, and began to saw through the end of it with a heavy blade.

"Really, sir," Howells said, "we must be going on our way! You see, we have an occasion to attend this evening. To be perfectly plain with you, sir, my companion is Mr. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow..."

But the sound of the sawing proved too much for the ancient to participate in conversation or for Howells to continue.

"Longfellow," Howells turned to the poet, "perhaps we should leave the creature be and give up for the day."

"He can show us our way, and I am sure he is almost through," Longfellow said patiently, content to store his hands in his frock coat and study the contents of the man's cabin.

"There's no clock in here?" Howells rolled his eyes. "Fields shall throw a fit if we don't make it to Parker's on time! Sir, do you have a timepiece anywhere about?"

Again, the sawing, which was now greatly wearing out the old gentleman, prevented any role in a conversation. The sparks flying from the saw increased the sticky heat of the cabin.

"Perhaps I can help you with that?" Howells said finally. The Altantic assistant editor grabbed the rear portion of the saw's handle and lodged the blade against the unyielding branch.

Longfellow surveyed the bric-a-brac devouring the ancient's wall, a collection as peculiar as the Washington Elm branch that had been hanging over the clay fireplace. The assortment included two or three pieces of blown glass, a stuffed white owl stretching out its claws in an unnatural position, a strange reef of crystalline minerals and rock, a dusty brass urn, and a miniature representing an obelisk on an island with an expansive willow of silver thread overhanging it. Longfellow's eyes froze as he reached the print hanging above all these souvenirs, staring down with bright yellow and red, breaking the dimness of the cabin with the disinterested brilliance of a rising sun.

"Howells!" Longfellow gasped.

"I'm helping our dear friend here with the saw, Mr. Longfellow!" Howells answered.

Longfellow backed away from the wall. "Howells!" the poet repeated.

Howells sliced clean through the branch and the selected block fell with a victorious thump to the floor, where the ancient dropped down to grope for it.

"I've done it, Longfellow! Look at this piece of the branch we've cut!" Howells smiled. Howells squinted through the darkness, following Longfellow's gaze to the wall. He had to be quite careful in storing the saw safely away on the crowded bench, for he very nearly dropped the sharp metal tool as he craned his neck up at the hanging on the wall, a familiar print, the Giotto portrait of Dante Alighieri. It was a fair-skinned Dante, high cheek-bones, projecting under lip; crowned with laurels of bright green; a young soldier; eyes, hopeful, piercing, innocent.