THE VISITOR – FIFTY-SIX YEARS old, but a good deal more vigorous than the host – feigned aloofness as he watched his bookish minions fan out among the stacks, boxes, shelves, and barrels that now constituted the personal library of Daniel Waterhouse. One of them strayed towards an open keg. His master warned him away with a barrage of clucking, harrumphing, and finger-snaps. 'We must assume that anything Mr. Waterhouse has placed in a barrel, is bound for Boston!'