With this caution, my Quaker friend went with me a mile, and set me on a wood path. I must be put over at Hagy’s Ford, he feared, as the river was in flood and too high for a horse to wade; nor was it much better at Young’s Ford above. Finally he said, “The ferryman is Peter Skinner, and as bad as the Jersey Tories of that name. If thou dost perceive him to talk Friends’ language in reply to thy own talk, thou wilt do well to doubt what he may tell thee. He is not of our society. He cannot even so speak as that it will deceive. Hereabouts it is thought he is in league with Fitz.” I asked who was Fitz. He was one, I was told, who had received some lashes when a private in our army, and had deserted. The British, discovering his capacity, now used him as a forager; but he did not stop at hen-roosts.
With this added warning, I went on, keeping north until I came to the Rock road, by no means misnamed, and so through Merion Square to Hagy’s Ford Lane and the descent to the river. I saw few people on the way. The stream was in a freshet, and not to be waded. My ferryman was caulking a dory. I said:
“Wilt thou set me across, friend, and at what charge?”
To this he replied, “Where is thee bound?”
I said, “To White Marsh.”
“Thee is not of these parts.”
“No.”
He was speaking the vile tongue which now all but educated Friends speak, and even some of these; but at that time it was spoken only by the vulgar.
“It will cost thee two shillings.”
“Too much,” said I; “but thou hast me caught I must over, and that soon.”