"The worst I ever saw," responded Constable Applebee. "It's a record, that's what it is. We had a bad spell in December--lasted two days--you remember it, Pond?
"Should think I did."
"It was nothing compared to this. I'd sooner walk through a foot and a half of snow than through such a fog. It gets into the eyes, and into the chest, and into the head; you can squeeze it through your fingers. When it's snow you know where you are; there it is, at your feet; it don't mount. It gives a man fair play; this don't. I've been looking for you everywhere. Where did you get to?"
"Hard to say. As fur as I know I haven't been off my beat."
"Same here. Anything to report?"
"No. Have you?"
Constable Applebee gave no direct reply, but branched off into what, apparently, was another subject. "Look here, Pond. Are you a nervous man?"
"Not particularly," answered Constable Pond, with a timid look around.
"But you don't like this sort of thing?"
"Who would?"