enveloped Ben as he floated off someplace in time and space. A gentle golden radiance filled his spirit when the
angel's voice called, soft as noon breeze in summer meadows.
"Rest here, stay awhile, help those in need of your gifts. Even in a place such as Chapelvale there are petty
tyrants and those whose hearts are ruled by greed. You and your dog must come to the aid of the good folk here. But,
hearken, at the sound of a single toll from a church bell, you must leave!" '
The message of the bell—a church bell this time—remained clear in Ben's mind, even as his dreams raced on,
over centuries, across seas, over mountains, through distant lands, wherever he and Ned had been sent to assist the op-
pressed in their struggle against villainy. He saw faces from the past, friends and enemies alike, felt the apprehension
of arrival, the joy of being part of so many communities and the sorrow of having to depart and leave them behind.
Always onward to fresh adventures, with his faithful, unchanging friend Ned. The last thing that trailed through his
dream was a vision of the Flying Dutchman, with Vanderdecken wild-eyed at the ship's wheel. Away, away across the
dark waters it fled, until it, too, was lost to sight. Ben's slumber drifted with him off in the opposite direction, to calm,
untroubled sleep.
Mrs. Winn's cottage pie was as mouthwatering as the dessert of jam roly-poly pudding and custard. She
certainly knew how to cook for a hungry lad and his dog.
Ben brought up Mrs. Winn's remark from the afternoon. "Winnie, I hope you don't mind me asking, but why did
you say that it would be better if your son and his family stayed in Ceylon? Don't you want them to visit you?" As if
she had been waiting for a sympathetic ear, the old lady poured forth her tale of woe.
"A man from up north has come to live just outside of Chapelvale. His name is Obadiah Smithers, and he is in
the business of industrial speculation. Do you know what that means? Small villages and hamlets right across Britain
are being destroyed by men like Smithers. They build their mills and factories with chimneys belching black smoke,
sink mines with slag heaps defacing the countryside, hack out quarries, scarring the fields and destroying the
woodlands— all in the name of progress, which they say nothing can stop! Yet all they bring, the Smitherses of this
world, is misery, for money. Temporary hovels for their workers, low wages, and folk working right 'round the clock
to make vast profits for their masters."
Ben could see by Mrs. Winn's clenched fists and quivering voice that she was defiant, yet frightened. He spoke
soothingly. "So, what is it that Smithers wants with Chapelvale? It's just a little village."
With an effort she steadied her voice. "He wants limestone, would you believe. It appears Chapelvale is sitting
on top of huge limestone deposits! As you know, limestone is the basis of cement, and what with all the building
going on all over England, cement is in great demand. Progress means more buildings: more buildings, more cement!
Obadiah Smithers, together with Jackman Donning and Bowe, a London firm, did a survey of the land and made the
discovery. They plan to have a limestone quarry and a cement factory, right here in Chapelvale. They even had the
railway branch line built so they can deliver cement anywhere. By next Thursday, when the demolition order is made
official, the shops, houses, school, the entire village will be no more!"
"Couldn't you move to another village?"
Ben's remark was quite innocent. He was taken aback at the vehemence of the old lady's reaction—she virtually
exploded.
"Move? Certainly not, young man! Chapelvale and the surrounding lands first belonged to the Winn family. I
consider it my village!"
The boy shrugged. "Has nobody tried to stop all of this?"
Mrs. Winn banged the table with frustration. "I tried, the day that Smithers posted his first notice in the square. I
went straight to my lawyer, Mr. Mackay, and stated my claim as a member of the Winn family. But the only deeds of
ownership I have are for this house. I haven't any other written proof—I don't even have the deeds to the village
almshouse in the square, though Captain Winn said it still belongs to his family and it is our inheritance."
"A village almshouse?"
The old lady poured tea as she explained. "Long ago an almshouse was a place where poor people could find
free food and lodging. They were generally owned by rich families, or the Church. Poor friars, brothers of begging
orders, mendicant monks, often stayed at them. Nobody really knows how old our almshouse is, but it's very ancient.
Unfortunately, it's in a dreadful state of repair. An old friend of Captain Winn's has taken to living there. His name is
Jon Preston—the vil-lagers think that he's quite mad."
Ben replenished the old lady's teacup. "I'd like to meet him."
She shook her head with a quick, severe, bird-like movement. "I'd advise you to steer clear of him, lad. That old
hermit doesn't take kindly to strangers or young people!"
She sniffed, wiping her eyes with her apron hem. "He'll have to find somewhere else to live after next Thursday.
The deadline comes in force then and there's little I, or anyone else, can do about it."
The strange boy's blue eyes softened. He felt sad for the old lady. "Only one week, but why?"
Mrs. Winn gave a hopeless little shrug. "Smithers and his London investors are powerful people. I can't prove
the Winn title to Chapelvale land, and I haven't the money to fight them. Jon Preston said he'd look for evidence, and
Mr. Maekay has done his best to help, but it's no use.
"A month ago Smithers and his friends took out a Court Order. They posted a notice in the village square. It
says that any person—but it really means me—must prove ownership of the land. In the event of no legal claims
turning up, Smithers and the Londoners intend to purchase the village, shops, houses, almshouse, farms, everything.
Then they can demolish Chapelvale to make way for their quarry and cement factory.
"That was a month ago—there's only seven days left now. Not only that. I know Smithers allows that boy of his
to run loose with his gang. They harass me, the shopkeepers, and village folk. Some folk are so tormented by them
that they'll be glad to move away in the end!"
Ned and Horatio had wandered into the parlor. They both lay stretched on the hearthrug when the hall clock
chimed nine. Other than that the room lay silent in the gathering dusk of late-summer evening. Mrs. Winn sat staring
out of the window at her garden with its high redbrick wall, rhododendrons and roses, the neat square lawn separated
by a gently curving path with borders of pansies, gypsy grass, and busy lizzie. Ben resisted the urge to comfort her.
Instead he passed a thought to his dog.
"Did you hear all that?"
The big black animal opened one eye. "Well, almost, I've got the general idea of what's going on. Though I
don't see how we can help."
Ben's fists clenched involuntarily. "But we've got to help. Now I know why the angel steered us to Chapelvale,
Ned: We must help these people to help themselves in some way or other! Ned, you've closed that eye—are you going
to sleep?"
The Labrador's eye flicked lazily open. "No, I'm giving it some thought. The best way to solve a problem is to
sleep on it. Not a lot we can start doing until tomorrow, is there, Ben?"
The boy watched Mrs. Winn rise and start clearing away the dinner things. He helped her to carry the dishes out