"They're all at loggerheads there."
But Nicholas, hearing how neither faction would forego its glory, had
the remedy ready in a cranny of his brain.
"Well," said he, "you know there was a raid in '53, when both sides
gi'n up an' run. A crazed creatur on a white horse galloped up an'
dispersed 'em. He was all wropped up in a sheet, and carried a
jack-o'-lantern on a pole over his head, so 't he seemed more 'n nine
feet high. The settlers thought 'twas a spirit; an' as for the Injuns,
Lord knows what 't was to them. 'T any rate, the raid was over."
"Heaven be praised!" cried the doctor fervently. "Allah is great, and
you, Mr. Oldfield, are his prophet. Stay here and coach the parson
while I start up the town."
The doctor dashed home and mounted his horse. It was said that he did
some tall riding that day. From door to door he galloped, a lesser Paul
Revere, but sowing seeds of harmony. It was true that the soil was
ready. Indians in full costume were lurking down cellar or behind
kitchen doors, swearing they would never ride, but tremblingly eager to
be urged. Settlers, gloomily acquiescent in an unjust fate, brightened
at his heralding. The ghost was the thing. It took the popular fancy;
and everybody wondered, as after all illuminings of genius, why nobody
had thought of it before.
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