Mr. Blee
departed into the frosty night.

"Fust time as ever you give me an arm," murmured Billy.

"Won't be the last, I'm sure," declared Will.

"I've allus had a gude word for 'e ever since I knawed 'e," answered
Billy.

"An' why for shouldn't 'e?" asked Will.

"Beginning of New Year 's a solemn sarcumstance," proceeded Billy, as a
solitary bell began to toll. "Theer 's the death-rattle of eighteen
hunderd an' eighty-six! Well, well, we must all die--men an' mice."

"An' the devil take the hindmost."

Mr. Blee chuckled.

"Let 's go round this way," he said.

"Why? Ban't your auld bones ready for bed yet? Theer 's nought theer but
starlight an' frost."

"Be gormed to the frost! I laugh at it. Ban't that. 'T is the Union
workhouse, wheer auld Lezzard lies. I likes to pass, an' nod to un as he
sits on the lew side o' the wall in his white coat, chumping his
thoughts between his gums."

"He 'm happier 'n me or you, I lay."

"Not him! You should see un glower 'pon me when I gives un 'gude day.'
I tawld un wance as the Poor Rates was up somethin' cruel since he'd
gone in the House, an' he looked as though he'd 'a' liked to do me
violence. No, he ban't happy, I warn 'e."

"Well, you won't see un sitting under the stars in his white coat, poor
auld blid. He 'm asleep under the blankets, I lay."

"Thin wans! Thin blankets an' not many of 'em. An' all his awn doin'.
Patent justice, if ever I seed it."

"Tramp along! You can travel faster 'n that. Ess fay! Justice is the
battle-cry o' God against men most times. Maybe they 'm strong on it in
heaven, but theer 's damned little filters down here. Theer go the
bells! Another New Year come. Years o' the Lard they call 'em! Years o'
the devil most times, if you ax me. What do 'e want the New Year to
bring to you, Billy?"

"A contented 'eart," said Mr. Blee, "an' perhaps just half-a-crown more
a week, if 't was seemly. Brains be paid higher 'n sweat in this world,
an' I'm mostly brain now in my dealin's wi' Miller. A brain be like a
nut, as ripens all the year through an' awnly comes to be gude for
gathering when the tree 's in the sere. 'T is in the autumn of life a
man's brain be worth plucking like--eh?"

"Doan't knaw. They 'm maggoty mostly at your age!"

"An' they 'm milky mostly at yourn!"

"Listen to the bells an' give awver chattering," said Will.

"After gude store o' drinks, a sad thing like holy bells ringing in the
dark afar off do sting my nose