There is a legend in the northeast of a man condemned to ride the storm for all eternity. When folks first started describing the man and his conveyance, he was always seen running just ahead of a fierce thunderstorm that appeared out of nowhere, in an open carriage being drawn by a fierce bay horse. Sitting next to him is his small daughter, perhaps no more than six years old. They are both soaking wet and their faces are both covered in panic and fear. The carriage is being driven at a frenetic pace for just behind this strange pair is a sky of tight rolling black thunderheads and the sound of distant thunder begins to fill the air. If you ask around, you are sure to find someone who has either seen the man himself or at least knows someone who has. They say that if you’re of a mind to speak with him and he notices you, he is likely to slow the beast that pulls his rig just long enough to stop and ask you a single question. “Which way to Boston?” You might find the words to tell him if you are not stupified by the sight your eyes behold. Then he will give you a weary look and crack the whip and continue the long journey home. The man’s name is Peter Rugg and he is cursed by God or the Devil to ride the road to Boston forever without ever reaching his final destination. He is no ghost or demon, but a mortal man doomed to roam the hills and byways until Kingdom Come, a kind of Flying Dutchman of New England. Thomas Cutter of West Cambridge claimed that Peter Rugg stopped at his place just before he was lost in the stream of time. They were friends and Rugg has been driving that great bay all day in an effort to get home before dark. He took rum and when Cutter told him he should consider staying the night rather than face the storm, Rugg’s violent temper arose and exclaimed “Let the storm increase! I will see home tonight in spite of the storm or may I never see home!”  And with that, he raised his whip high in the air and the horse bolted to action. But Peter Rugg and his little daughter Jenny never made it home. His wife, Catherine, grew old and died waiting for him, though she must have found it strange that every so often, someone would mention to her that they had seen a man on the road who looked like Peter who had stopped and asked for directions to Boston. Later, years after Catherine Rugg’s demise, a woman called Mrs. Croft tells of a strange visit from a man and his small daughter in a weather-beaten black carriage, just at twilight. Mrs. Croft relates that the man asked her about Catherine Rugg. Mrs. Croft informed the man that Mrs. Rugg had passed on more than twenty years ago.  “How can you deceive me so?” he asked. “This is my home. Go find Mrs. Rugg and have her come to the door, at once!” he demanded. Mrs. Croft assured him that no one lived in that place but herself. The confused man steps back and reexamines the house. “Though the paint looks rather faded, this resembles my house.” “Yes,” the disheveled and tired child says, “there is the stone before the door that I used to on to eat my bread and milk.” “Yes,” the man replies, “but this cannot be my house. It is on the wrong side of the street, no doubt. Tell me,” he asked Mrs. Croft, “what town is this?” “Town? Why, this is Boston,” she answers. “This is Boston?” he asks, incredulously. “But it seems so different. Well, at any rate, you can see I am wet and weary and I need a place to rest. I will go to Hart’s Tavern, near the market.” “What market?” she asks. “You know there is but one market near the town dock,” he exclaims. Mrs. Croft considers and then, after a moment replied, “Oh, you mean the old town market. But no one has kept there these twenty years!” The gentleman pushes down is ire and replies mostly to himself, “So strange. How much this looks like Boston. It certainly has a great resemblance to it; but I perceive my mi