“Eh? What—why—why, Caleb, that's—ain't that the Nickerson memorial gate? . . . It can't be! But—but it IS! Why—”
Mr. Hammond was muttering to himself.
“We took the wrong road at the crossin',” he said. “Then we must have switched again, probably when we was arguin' about kindlin' the fire; then we must have turned again when the harness broke; and that must have fetched us into Lemuel Ellis' wood-lot road that comes out—”
“Eh? Lemuel Ellis' wood-lot? Why, Lemuel's wood-lot is at—”
“It's at Wellmouth Centre, that's where 'tis. No wonder that church looked familiar. Hannah, we ain't been nigh Bayport. We've been ridin' round and round in circles through them woods all night.”
“Caleb HAMMOND!”
Before Caleb could add anything to his astonishing statement the silence of the night was broken by the clang of the bell in the tower of the church. It clanged four times.
“WHAT!” exclaimed Caleb. “Only four o'clock! It can't be!”
“My soul!” cried Miss Parker, “only four! Why—why, I thought we'd been ridin' ten hours at least. . . . Caleb Hammond, you and me don't want to find a minister; what we need to look up is a pair of guardians to take care of us.”
But Mr. Hammond seized her arm.