"Then the Lord help us, if it came to that! Please, sir, his wages might be stopped. I've heard of a master paying in illness, though it's not many of 'em as would, but I've never knowed 'em pay for holidays. The biting cold will go soon, Dick," she added, looking at him; "don't be downhearted." "I should give him a cup of hot tea, Mrs. Mitchel, and let him go to bed. Good night; I'm off." I should have liked to say beer instead of tea; it would have put a bit of strength into the boy; but I might just as well have suggested wine, for all they had of either. Leaving the strap at the blacksmith's--it was but a minute or two out of my road--I told him to send it up to Mitchel's as soon as it was done. "I dare say!" was what I got in answer. "Look here, Cawson: the lad's ill, and his father was not in the way. If you don't choose to let your boy run up with that, or take it yourself, you shall never have another job of work from the Squire if I can prevent it." "I'll send it, sir," said Cawson, coming to his senses. Not that he had much from us: we chiefly patronized Dovey, down in Piefinch Cut. Now, all this happened: as Duffham and others could testify if necessary; it is not put in to make up a story. But I never thought worse of Dick than that he was done over for the moment with the cold. Of all days in remembrance, the next was the worst. The cold was more intense--though that had seemed impossible; and a fierce wind was blowing that cut you in two. It kept us from skating--and that's saying a good deal. We got half-way to the lake, and couldn't stand it, so turned home again. Jacobson's team was out, braving the weather: we saw it at a distance. "What a fool that waggoner must be to bring out the team to-day!" cried Tod. "He can't do any good on this hard ground. He must be doing it for bravado. It is a sign his master's not at home." In the afternoon, when a good hot meal had put warmth into us, we thought we'd be off again; and this time gained the pond. The wind was like a knife; I never skated in anything like it before; but we kept on till dusk. Going homewards, in passing Glebe Cottage, which lay away on the left, we caught sight of three or four people standing before it. "What's to do there?" asked Tod of a man, expecting to hear that old Mrs. Parry had had a second stroke. "Sum'at's wrong wi' Jacobson's ploughboy," was the answer. "He has just been took in there." "Jacobson's ploughboy! Why, Tod, that must be Dick Mitchel." "And what if it is!" returned Tod, starting off again. "The youngster's half frozen, I dare say. Let us get home. Johnny. What are you stopping for?" By saying "half frozen" he meant nothing. Not a thought of real ill was in his mind. I went across to the house; and met Hall the ploughman coming out of it. "Is Dick Mitchel ill, Hall?"