At last, when night fell, and the rain diminished to a thin drizzle, though the barometer gave no promise of improvement, men gathered in the village street and began comparing notes. Everyone had suffered in some degree; even the shopkeepers and private residents complained of ruined goods, gardens rooted up, houses invaded by the all-pervading floods.
But the farmers endured the greatest damage. Some had lost their half-year’s rent, many would be faced with privation and bankruptcy. Thrice fortunate now were the men with capital—those who could look forward with equanimity to another season when the wanton havoc inflicted by this wild raging of the waters should be recouped.
John Bolland, protected by an oilskin coat, crossed the road between the stockyard and the White House about eight o’clock.
“Eh, Mr. Bollan’, but this is a sad day’s wark,” said a friend who encountered him.
“Ah, it’s bad, very bad, an’ likely te be worse,” replied John, lifting his bent head and casting a weather-wise glance over the northerly moor.
“I’ve lost t’ best part o’ six acres o’ wuts,” (oats) growled his neighbor. “It’s hard to know what spite there was in t’ clouds te burst i’ that way.”
“Times an’ seasons aren’t i’ man’s hands,” was the quiet answer. “There’d be ill deed if sunshine an’ storm were settled by voates, like a county-council election.”
“Mebbe, and mebbe nut,” cried the other testily. “’Tis easy to leave ivvrything te Providence when yer money’s mostly i’ stock. Mine happens te be i’ crops.”
“An’ if mine were i’ crops, Mr. Pattison, I sud still thry te desarve well o’ Providence.”
This shrewd thrust evoked no wrath from Pattison, who was not a chapel-goer.