“You dassn’t!” “I don’t know whether I’ll _go_ or not,” said Jehoshaphat. “Maybe not. Anyhow, I’ll count ten, an’ see what happens. Is you ready?” Wull sat down on the tarpaulin. “One,” Jehoshaphat began. John Wull seemed not to hear. “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.” “I dare you.” “I will, Mister Wull. Honest, I will! I’ll say ten an you don’t look out.” “Why don’t you _do_ it?” “In a minute, Mister Wull. I’ll say it just so soon as I get up the sail. I will, Mister Wull, honest t’ God!” The coast had vanished. “Look,” cried Jehoshaphat, “we’re doomed men!” The squall, then first observed, sent the sea curling over the ice. Jehoshaphat’s rodney shipped the water it raised. Snow came in a blinding cloud. “Say ten, you fool!” screamed old John Wull. “Ten!” John Wull came to the edge of the pan. ’Twas hard for the old man to breast the gust. He put his hands to his mouth that he might be heard in the wind. “I give in!” he shouted. Jehoshaphat managed to save the lives of both. * * * * * Old John Wull, with his lean feet in a tub of hot water, with a gray blanket over his shoulders, with a fire sputtering in the stove, with his housekeeper hovering near—old John Wull chuckled. The room was warm and his stomach was full, and the wind, blowing horribly in the night, could work him no harm. There he sat, sipping herb tea to please his housekeeper, drinking whiskey to please himself. He had no chill, no fever, no pain; perceived no warning of illness. So he chuckled away. It was all for the best. There would now surely be peace at Satan’s Trap. Had he not yielded? What more could they ask? They would be content with this victory. For a long, long time they would not complain. He had yielded; very well: Timothy Yule should have his father’s meadow, Dame Jowl her garden and sweets and cheese, the young Lower be left in possession of the cod-trap, and there would be no law. Very well; the folk would neither pry nor complain for a long, long time: that was triumph enough for John Wull. So he chuckled away, with his feet in hot water, and a gray blanket about him, bald and withered and ghastly, but still feeling the comfort of fire and hot water and whiskey, the pride of power. And within three years John Wull possessed again all that he had yielded, and the world of Satan’s Trap wagged on as in the days before the revolution. ----- [1] A rodney is a small, light boat, used for getting about among the ice packs, chiefly in seal-hunting.