The awe of the magistrate's presence had the desired effect, and the crowd broke up in groups of two or three, and each took his way homeward quietly.
"Jonathan, doest thou believe the master dotted his i's and crossed his t's when he signed his name in the Black Man's book in the forest yonder?" said Christopher, as the two boys walked home together.
"Nay, I know not," said Jonathan, absently.
"Verily, I hope the Black Man cracked him across his knuckles, if he did not," said Christopher; and he thought of his own often-aching fists.
"Chris, thou art too wise to believe the poor master's a witch," said Jonathan.
"Nay, how could I be, when the magistrates themselves, and all the wise men of the town, believe it?"
"Thou doest not believe the master stuck pins in Job Swinnerton's stomach?"
"Nay," laughed Chris; "the green apples from Deacon Gedney's orchard were the cause of his pain."
"But, Chris, I'm afraid it will go hard with the master, for all the boys but thou and I seem bent on making him a witch."
"Well, trouble not thyself about it. As Billy Mew says, if the master's a witch, we will have the longer play-day. To-morrow I go to my grandfather's, in Salem, and thou come over with thy father some day; it will be rare fun to see the witch children act."