It was on a Monday, the 30th of April, that the boys with the grocers' and butchers' delivery wagons, the gray-uniformed postmen behind their bony, always-tired horses, and the blue-coated, overfed mounted policemen began to circulate the report that the old White house had found a tenant; and every soul that listened made answer: "Impossible! No one could live in that old rookery!" and then, with incredible inconsistency, ended with: "Who's taken it?" At first no answer could be given to that question, but later in the day a man who strung telegraph wires won a brief importance through overhearing a conversation between two men standing below him and beside the pole he was mounted on. One …
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