“I'm going, pretty soon,” Jerome replied.
“You'll catch your death, settin' there in those wet clothes. Come, git up and go home.”
Jerome did not stir; his white face was set straight ahead; he muttered something which the other could not hear. Cheeseman looked at him perplexedly. He laid hold of his shoulder and shook him again, and ordered him angrily, with no avail; then set off himself. He was old, and the chill of his wet clothes was stealing through him.
Not long afterwards Jerome went down the road towards home. Half way there he met a hurrying man, belated for the tragic drama on the village stage.
“Hullo!” he called, excitedly. “Your mill gone?”
“Yes.”
“Dam gone?”
“Yes.”
“Gosh! Bridge gone?”
“Don't know.”