“Oh, that’s nothing,” said an old man. “Forty years ago, when I was a youngster, it used to think nothing of snowing for a week or a fortnight off hand.”
“Ah!” said another old man, shaking his head. “Snow now isn’t like the snow as used to be. It’s not so white, I know, for one thing—”
“Mayhap, daddy, your eyes arn’t so good?” said a good-looking young man who was the very picture of health and strength.
“I can tell you,” said the old man, with an air of indignation, “that in my days—that’s my young days, everything was different, snow and all.”
“You may say that,” remarked another. “When now shall we ever hear of a storm, such as that happened only ten years ago, and a matter of three months or thereby—eh?”
“You mean the time when Savage Britton had part of his old Smithy burnt?”
“The fire wasn’t near his Smithy,” said the old man; “I saw it, and I saw the mad fellow rush out with the child too.”
“We shall never know the rights of that business,” remarked another, “and since Frank Hartleton has gone to London, there’s no chance neither.”
“And you know who has shut himself up more than ever since.”
“The savage?”