“Go ring those village bells,
Let all the people know,
It was on a dark and stormy night,
One, two, three—perished in the snow.”
When they came to the enumerating of precisely how many perished, they stuck out their fingers three times. But some of them weren’t content with only three deaths in one family; they wanted to go on counting. Then the sailorman would stop singing and reprove them gently, “You know, young gen’lemen, that ain’t right. It ain’t fitting to joke on death.”
At last it occurred to him that something was amiss. “I’m afraid I’m a-makin’ a fool of meself.”
“Don’t mention it, Mr. Taylor,” they shouted.
Their answer didn’t reassure him, though they hurled it at him in varying keys many times. He insisted on leaving, making his exit backward because he had heard that a gentleman must always keep his face toward a lady.
The rain was over. The sky had a sorry look for having been petulant. The sun, though he still refused to come out, hung golden ladders from the clouds. They stepped into the street, gazing up and feeling the air with their hands.
“What about it?” asked Harry.