"Yes, sir; I wrote much for nearly a year for the _New England
Courant_, one of the newspapers in Boston."

"And only seventeen years old now?"

"I was only sixteen when I wrote the most."

That was as far as Benjamin dared to disclose his history, lest he
might make trouble for himself. He had disclosed enough, however, to
set his host to thinking. Neither of the Bradfords really believed his
story about his writing for the press; and yet there was something
about him, composed of intelligence, refinement, and manliness, that
impressed them. The more they conversed with him, the more were they
satisfied that he was an uncommon youth. While that conviction
awakened their curiosity to know more of his history, it served, also,
to cause them to respect his boy-manhood, and so not to ply him with
too many or close questions. Thus Benjamin escaped the necessity of
exposing the objectionable part of his career, and left his good
friends wondering over the mysterious young printer they were
befriending.

Benjamin repaired Keimer's press, and then attended to Bradford's,
before the Elegy was ready to be printed. By that time, Keimer had
engaged to print a pamphlet and do some other small jobs, so that he
needed Benjamin's services all the time.

"I shall want you right along, now, I think; but you must change your
boarding-place. I don't want you should board with a man who knows so
much about my business." And Keimer laughed as he made this last
remark.