"Could happen, could happen," Dawson grunted. "But I'm just hoping it isn't happening here."
"No fear of that, my little man," Freddy assured him. "Take hold of Pater's hand, and he'll lead you."
However, Dawson refused to do that. Fifteen minutes later, as the pair came to a cross street, Freddy Farmer paused and rubbed a hand down the side of his face.
"Blast it, there shouldn't be a cross street here!" he muttered.
"Oh, oh!" Dawson groaned. "And my mother warned me, too!"
"Oh, shut up!" Farmer growled. "It's probably a new one they've made since I was here last."
Dawson didn't say anything. A small metal plate on the step post of the first building of the cross street caught his eye. He moved closer and snapped on his small pocket flashlight for an instant. When he came back to Freddy his voice was brittle.
"And how were things in 1810 when you were here last, pal?" he snapped. "That's when that post plate says that building was built. Made the street since the blitz, huh? Or was there a blitz in 1810?"
"Oh, good grief, Dave, I'm afraid—!" Freddy Farmer began.
"I'm not afraid we're lost!" Dawson cut in. "I'm dead certain, dope. Give me a shilling!"