“I b'lieve the hull town's crazy. I've heard that Doctor Prescott has give his place back to John Upham, an' Peter Thomas is comin' out of the poor-farm an' goin' back to his old house. J'rome, I declar' to reason, I b'lieve you're crazy, an' the hull town has caught it. What's that? Who's comin'?”
A wild-eyed little boy, with fair hair stiff to the breeze, came racing across the plough ridges. “Come quick! Come quick!” he gasped. “They've sent me—Doctor Prescott's ain't to home—he's most dead! Come quick!”
“Where to?” shouted Jerome, pulling the tackle off the horse.
“Come quick, J'rome!”
“Where to?”
“Speak up, can't ye?” cried Ozias, shaking the boy by his small shoulder.
“To Basset's!” screamed the boy, shrilly, jerked away from Ozias, and was off, clearing the ground like a hound, with long leaps.
“Lord,” said Ozias, looking at the deed, “it's killed him!”
Jerome had freed the horse from the plough, and now sprang upon his back.
“Ye ain't goin' to ride him bare-back?” asked Ozias.