"Shot if I know; but he's took pretty bad."
"Who, pray?"
"Wall, I skurce can tell that. He's an Englisher—come to our place this mornin' and axed fur a horse and wagon to carry him to Rochester; and he's got so fur,—that's two miles o' the way,—and he can't go no furder, I guess. He's took powerful bad."
"Ill, is he?"
"Says so. And he looks it."
"Cannot go on to Rochester?
"It's fifteen mile, Mis' Carpenter. I wouldn't like to be the man to drive him. He can't go another foot, he says. He was took quite sudden."
"Cannot you turn about and carry him back to Medwayville?"
"Now, Mis' Carpenter, you're a Christian, and a soft-hearted one, we all know. Can't you let him come in and rest a bit? Mebbe you could give him sunthin' that would set him up. You understand doctorin', fust-rate."
Mrs. Carpenter looked grave, considered.