It reminded Padway of those United States Government projects for the restoration of Colonial towns, like Williamsburg. But this looked like the real thing. No restoration included all the dirt and disease, the insults and altercations, that Padway had seen and heard in an hour's walk.
Only two hypotheses remained: delirium and time-slip. Delirium now seemed the less probable. He would act on the assumption that things were in fact what they seemed.
He couldn't stand there indefinitely. He'd have to ask questions and get himself oriented. The idea gave him gooseflesh. He had a phobia about accosting strangers. Twice he opened his mouth, but his glottis closed up tight with stage fright.
Come on, Padway, get a grip on yourself. "I beg your pardon, but could you tell me the date?
The man addressed, a mild-looking person with a loaf of bread under his arm, stopped and looked blank. "Qui' e'? What is it?"
"I said, could you tell me the date?"
The man frowned. Was he going to be nasty? But all he said was, "Non compr' endo." Padway tried again, speaking very slowly. The man repeated that he did not understand.
Padway fumbled for his date-book and pencil. He wrote his request on a page of the date-book, and held the thing up.
The man peered at it, moving his lips. His face cleared. "Oh, you want to know the date?" said he.
"Sic, the date."