Knowledge dripped from his finger-ends; he had it
ready, like oil to give a clock. Doctor and minister stood breathless
while he laid out the track for the procession by local marks they both
knew well.
"They must ha' come into the town from som'er's nigh the old
cross-road," said he. "No, 't wa'n't where they made the river road.
Then they turned straight to one side--'t was thick woods then, you
understand--an' went up a little ways towards Horn o' the Moon. But
they concluded that wouldn't suit 'em, 't was so barren-like; an' they
wheeled round, took what's now the old turnpike, an' clim' right up
Tiverton Hill, through Tiverton Street that now is. An'
there"--Nicholas Oldfield's eyes burned like blue flame, and again he
told the story of the Flat-Iron Lot.
"Indeed!" cried the parson. "What a truly remarkable circumstance! We
might halt on that very spot, and offer prayer, before entering the
church."
"'Pears as if that would be about the rights on 't," said Nicholas
quietly. "That is, if anybody wanted to plan it out jest as 't was." He
could free his words from the pride of life, but not his voice; it
quivered and betrayed him.
"Your idea would be to have the services before going down for the
Indian raid?" inquired the doctor.
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