"I bet there will. Then we can go chestnutting to-morrow. The burs will be down by the wagonload, and I know where we can get bushels of nuts."
"Bushels of chestnuts?" questioned Roger, who had only seen as many of the shiny brown fellows at one time as could be heaped on some street vendor's stand.
"Yes, sir, bushels," maintained Adrian, "and, do you know, they'll sell for about five dollars a bushel this year."
"I should think they might, judging by the few you get from the Italians for a dime," said Roger, thinking of how often he had bought the roasted or boiled nuts from the stand at the corner near his home.
The boys now set off, racing towards the house. They spent the evening reading and talking. About nine o'clock, when Adrian stepped to the spout at the side door to get a fresh drink of water, he came back with red cheeks and announced that it was growing much colder.
That night Jack Frost descended on Cardiff valley with all his forces. It got colder and colder, a tingling, vigorous cold that snapped the nails in the clapboards on the house. The morning dawned clear, and a breath of the fresh bracing air made the blood race through the veins.
"This is suthin' like weather," observed Mr. Kimball, rubbing his hands briskly, as he went out to the barn before breakfast to feed and water the cows and horses. "I'm glad it didn't catch us nappin', 'ith th' grapes not picked."
He broke a thin sheet of ice on the horse trough.
"Thar'll be skatin' ef this keeps on," he added with a twinkle in his blue eyes, as he saw Roger and Adrian racing out after him. They leaped and bounded, for the bracing air made them feel like young colts running in a big field. Roger seemed to have improved very much in his health in a short time, and he was now a good second to his cousin, a most sturdy youth.
"Reckon it's goin' t' snow," said Mr. Kimball, as he carried a pail of water into the barn.