You hop upfront.
You enjoy the ride. The sun begins to shine, the birds to chirp.
Colonial times are quiet, but don't appear all that different from
your time.
"Excuse me, sir?" you ask. "Forgive my ignorance, but
what year. . .be this?"
He turns to you and smiles. "Why, it is in the year of our Lord
1776, of course."
The man climbs in next to you and places his shotgun between the two
of you. He gives the reins a few soft snaps, and the two horses begin
to plod along.
