"
The evening was dusking down by this time, and Parson Polwhele,
though a good bit puzzled, called to mind that his wife would be
getting anxious to cross the ferry and reach home before dark: so he
determined that nothing could be done before morning, when he
promised Arch'laus Spry to look into the matter. My grandfather he
took across in the boat with him, to look after the parcels and help
them up to the Vicarage: and on the way they talked about a grave
that my grandfather had been digging--he being sexton and parish
clerk, as well as constable and the Parson's right-hand man, as you
might call it, in all public matters.
While they discoursed, Mrs. Polwhele was taking a look about her to
make sure the country hadn't altered while she was away at Plymouth.
And by and by she cries out:
"Why, my love, whatever are these dabs o' white stuck up and down the
foreshore?"
The Parson takes a look at my grandfather before answering:
"My angel, to tell you the truth, that's more than we know."
"Richard, you're concealing something from me," said Mrs. Polwhele.
"If the French have landed and I'm going home to be burnt in my bed,
it shall be with my eyes open.
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