“I cannot tell precisely; it seems a considerable time.”
“But how did you and your child become so wet? It has not rained here to-day.”
“It has just rained a heavy shower up the river. But I shall not reach Boston to-night if I tarry. Would you advise me to take the old road or the turnpike?”
“Why, the old road is one hundred and seventeen miles, and the turnpike is ninety-seven.”
“How can you say so? You impose on me; it is wrong to trifle with a traveller; you know it is but forty miles from Newburyport to Boston.”
“But this is not Newburyport; this is Hartford.”
“Do not deceive me, sir. Is not this town Newburyport, and the river that I have been following the Merrimack?”
“No, sir; this is Hartford, and the river the Connecticut.”
He wrung his hands and looked incredulous. “Have the rivers, too, changed their courses, as the cities have changed places? But see! the clouds are gathering in the south, and we shall have a rainy night. Ah, that fatal oath!”
He would tarry no longer; his impatient horse leaped off, his hind flanks rising like wings; he seemed to devour all before him, and to scorn all behind.