Pan and boat drifted out from the coast, a slow course, which in an hour had reduced the harbor folk to black pygmies on the low rocks to windward. Jehoshaphat paddled patiently in the wake of the ice. Often he raised his head, in apprehension, to read the signs in the west; and he sighed a deal, and sometimes muttered to himself. Old John Wull was squatted on the tarpaulin, with Timothy Yule’s jacket for a cushion, his great-coat wrapped close about him, his cap pulled over his ears, his arms folded. The withered old fellow was as lean and blue and rigid and staring as a frozen corpse. The wind had freshened. The look and smell of the world foreboded a gale. Overhead the sky turned gray. There came a shadow on the sea, sullen and ominous. Gusts of wind ran offshore and went hissing out to sea; and they left the waters rippling black and flecked with froth wherever they touched. In the west the sky, far away, changed from gray to deepest black and purple; and high up, midway, masses of cloud, with torn and streaming edges, rose swiftly toward the zenith. It turned cold. A great flake of snow fell on Jehoshaphat’s cheek, and melted; but Jehoshaphat was pondering upon justice. He wiped the drop of water away with the back of his hand, because it tickled him, but gave the sign no heed. “I ’low, Mister Wull,” said he, doggedly, “that you better give Timothy Yule back his father’s meadow. For nobody knows, sir,” he argued, “why Timothy Yule’s father went an’ signed his name t’ that there writin’ just afore he died. ’Twasn’t right. He didn’t ought t’ sign it. An’ you got t’ give the meadow back.” John Wull was unmoved. “An’, look you! Mister Wull,” Jehoshaphat continued, pulling closer to the pan, addressing the bowed back of the trader, “you better not press young Isaac Lower for that cod-trap money. He’ve too much trouble with that wife o’ his t’ be bothered by debt. Anyhow, you ought t’ give un a chance. An’, look you! you better let ol’ Misses Jowl have back her garden t’ Green Cove. The way you got that, Mister Wull, is queer. I don’t know, but I ’low you better give it back, anyhow. You _got_ to, Mister Wull; an’, ecod! you got t’ give the ol’ woman a pound o’ cheese an’ five cents’ worth—no, ten—ten cents’ worth o’ sweets t’ make her feel good. She _likes_ cheese. She ’lows she never could get _enough_ o’ cheese. She ’lows she _wished_ she could have her fill afore she dies. An’ you got t’ give her a whole pound for herself.” They were drifting over the Tombstone grounds. “Whenever you makes up your mind,” Jehoshaphat suggested, diffidently, “you lift your little finger—jus’ your little finger.” There was no response. “Your little finger,” Jehoshaphat repeated. “Jus’ your little finger—on’y that.” Wull faced about. “Jehoshaphat,” said he, with a grin, “you wouldn’t leave me.” “Jus’ wouldn’t I!” “You wouldn’t.” “You jus’ wait and see.”