“Nay, she’s lauchin’ at her. Cauder! She could na pe mair caud than the noo.”
“Oh, very well; wait and see.”
“Put she’s chust choking her.”
“Chust choking you!” cried Steve, laughing. “I tell you it’s all true.”
“Hey, then, what’s to pecome of her?” groaned Watty. “She couldna pear a pit mair caud, and she’ll have to pe perried out here in the ice and snaw. Ye’ll chust tell her ane thing, Meester Stevey. She winna lauch at her?”
“No, I won’t laugh, Watty. What is it?”
“They keek oop a lot o’ talk and clish ma claver aboot it kettin’ dairk. Is she coing to hae ferry short days—shorter than they are the noo?”
“There’ll be no days at all soon. It will all be night.”
“Phwat! Dairk nicht, and no taylight at a’?”
“Not a bit. The sun will not rise at all for about eighteen weeks.”