“Two,” said Jehoshaphat. “Three—four—five—six—seven.”
John Wull did not turn.
“Eight.”
There was no sign of relenting.
“Nine.”
Jehoshaphat paused. “God’s mercy!” he groaned, “don’t you be a fool, Mister Wull,” he pleaded. “Doesn’t you know what the weather is?”
A wave—the lop raised by the wind—broke over the pan. John Wull stood up. There came a shower of snow.
“Eh?” Jehoshaphat demanded, in agony.
“I won’t give in,” said old John Wull.
“Then I got t’ say ten. I jus’ got to.”