Some said he was a sorcerer, that he had dealings with the Evil One; some that he was a criminal hiding from the eyes of the law; others that he was only an eccentric individual, who was a little crazed in consequence of a great trouble he had met with in early life.
When the children in the neighbourhood were troublesome and could not be brought to order by ordinary means, they were told that they would be handed over to the Stoke Ferryman, and this threat invariably had the desired effect.
At a little less than a half mile from the ferry stood the habitation and fertile land known as Stoke Ferry Farm, and at about two miles distance or a little more perhaps, was the residence o; Mr. Kensett, the magistrate.
It was the hour of twilight. Frogs croaked hoarsely from the damp ditches by the river-side, sometimes an owl flew past with its white ghastly wings and hollow cry.
A woman stood before the ferryman’s house. Her face was pale and haggard, her limbs were weary, and her garments were soiled.
She stood there for some minutes in a state of trepidation. Presently she seemed to muster up courage, for she seized the rope and rang the bell violently.
The cottage door was opened, and an old man with a lantern advanced down the garden path slowly towards the gate.
Through the bars of the gate which was secured by a padlock, he examined her face.
“Umph,” he murmured, “I suppose you wish to cross over, madam.”
“No, I do not. I wish to speak with you,” she answered.