less for a week, but in a commonplace kind of way, and they had gone
to bed thinking all was well. This night the snow must have fallen
as if the heavens had opened up, determined to shake themselves free
of it for ever.

The man who first came to himself and saw what was to be done was
young Henders Ramsay. Henders had no fixed occupation, being but an
"orra man" about the place, and the best thing known of him is that
his mother's sister was a Baptist. He feared God, man, nor the
minister; and all the learning he had was obtained from assiduous
study of a grocer's window. But for one brief day he had things his
own way in the town, or, speaking strictly, on the top of it. With a
spade, a broom, and a pickaxe, which sat lightly on his broad
shoulders (he was not even back-bent, and that showed him no
respectable weaver), Henders delved his way to the nearest house,
which formed one of a row, and addressed the inmates down the
chimney. They had already been clearing it at the other end, or his
words would have been choked. "You're snawed up, Davit," cried
Henders, in a voice that was entirely business-like; "hae ye a
spade?" A conversation ensued up and down this unusual channel of
communication. The unlucky householder, taking no thought of the
morrow, was without a spade. But if Henders would clear away the
snow from his door he would be "varra obleeged." Henders, however,
had to come to terms first. "The chairge is saxpence, Davit," he
shouted. Then a haggling ensued. Henders must be neighborly. A plate
of broth, now--or, say, twopence. But Henders was obdurate. "I'se
nae time to argy-bargy wi' ye, Davit. Gin ye're no willin' to say
saxpence, I'm aff to Will'um Pyatt's. He's buried too." So the
victim had to make up his mind to one of two things: he must either
say saxpence or remain where he was.