He stopped short and slapped his thigh.
"English!" he exclaimed. "'Tain't America, that's dead sure. Then it's England. England in 1598," he continued, scratching his head. "Let's see. Who in Sam Hill was runnin' things in 1598? Richard Coor de Lion—Henry Eight—no—or was it Joan of Arc? Be darned ef I know!"
He looked about him again and selected a neighboring house which he thought promised information.
He went to the front door and knocked. There was no reply, despite many attempts to arouse the inmates.
"Might ha' known," he muttered, and started around the house, where he found a side door half hidden beneath the projection of an upper story.
Here his efforts were rewarded at last by the appearance of a very old woman in a peaked hat and coif, apparently on the point of going out.
"Looks like a witch in the story-books," he thought, but his spoken comment was more polite.
"Good-mornin', ma'am," he said. "Would you be so kind as to tell me the name of this town?"
"This be Newington," she replied, in a high, cracked voice.
"Newington," he replied, with a nod and a smile intended to express complete enlightenment. "Ah, yes—Newington. Quite a town!"