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“Great days, those, gentlemen! Lived in Vermont then. Hot-blooded–lungs like an ox. I remember, Sallie Dearborn and I used to go a-foot to singing-school down the valley four miles. But now, wouldn’t go riding to-night with the handsomest woman in America, and the best cutter in Rock River.”

“Oh! you’ve got both feet in the grave up t’ the ankles, anyway,” said Robie, from his desk, but the Judge immovably gazed at the upper shelf on the other side of the room, where the boilers and pans and washboards were stored.

“The Judge is a little on the sentimental order to-night,” said Amos.

“Hold on, Colonel! hold on. You’ve got‘o jump. Hah! hah!” roared Gordon from the checkerboard. “That’s right, that’s right!” he ended, as the Colonel complied reluctantly.

“Sock it to the old cuss!” commented Amos. “What I was going to say,” he resumed, rolling down the collar of his coat, “was, that when my wife helped me bundle up t’night, she said I was gitt’n’ t’ be an old granny. We are agin’, Judge, the’s no denyin’ that. We’re both gray as Norway rats now. An’ speaking of us agin’ reminds me,–have y’ noticed how bald the old Kyernel’s gitt’n’?”

“I have, Amos,” answered the Judge, mournfully. “The old man’s head is showing age, showing age! Getting thin up there, ain’t it?”

The old Colonel bent to his work with studied abstraction, and even when Amos said, judicially, after long scrutiny: “Yes, he’ll soon be as bald as a plate,” he only lifted one yellow, freckled, bony hand, and brushed his carroty growth of hair across the spot under discussion. Gordon shook his fat paunch in silent laughter, nearly displacing the board.

“I was just telling Robie,” pursued Brown, still retaining his reminiscent intonation, “that this storm takes the cake over anything”—-

At this point Steve Roach and another fellow entered. Steve was Ridings’ hired hand, a herculean fellow, with a drawl, and a liability for taking offense quite as remarkable.

“Say! gents, I’m no spring rooster, but this jest gits away with anything in line of cold I ever see.”

While this communication was being received in ruminative silence, Steve was holding his ears in his hand and gazing at the intent champions at the board. There they sat; the old Squire panting and wheezing in his excitement, for he was planning a great “snap” on the Colonel, whose red and freckled nose almost touched the board. It was a solemn battle hour. The wind howled mournfully outside, the timbers of the store creaked in the cold, and the huge cannon stove roared in steady bass.

“Speaking about ears,” said Steve, after a silence, “dummed if I’d like t’ be quite s’ bare ’round the ears as Kernel there. I wonder if any o’ you fellers has noticed how the ol’ feller’s lost hair this last summer. He’s gittin’ bald, they’s no coverin’ it up–gittin’ bald as a plate.”

“You’re right, Stephen,” said the Judge, as he gravely took his stand behind his brother advocate and studied, with the eye of an adept, the field of battle. “We were noticing it when you came in. It’s a sad thing, but it must be admitted.”

“It’s the Kyernel’s brains wearin’ up through his hair, I take it,” commented Amos, as he helped himself to a handful of peanuts out of the bag behind the counter. “Say, Steve, did y’ stuff up that hole in front of ol’ Barney?”

A shout was heard outside, and then a rush against the door, and immediately two young fellows burst in, followed by a fierce gust of snow. One was Professor Knapp, the other Editor Foster, of the Morning Call.

“Well, gents, how’s this for high?” said Foster, in a peculiar tone of voice, at which all began to smile. He was a slender fellow with close-clipped, assertive red hair. “In this company we now have the majesty of the law, the power of the press, and the underpinning of the American civilization all represented. Hello! There are a couple of old roosters with their heads together. Gordon, my old enemy, how are you?”