A little man, far in years, pottered about in front, brushing the snow and cleaning the windows.
"Yon man is just in time for the 'sizes," said a young fellow as he swung by with another, who was pointing to the house and muttering something that was inaudible to Robbie.
"What place is this ?" said Robbie, when they had gone, stepping up to the gate and addressing the old man within.
"The judges' lodgings surely," replied the caretaker, lifting his eyes from his shovel with a look of surprise at the question.
"And the 'sizes, when are they on ?" "Next week; that's when they begin." The ancient custodian was evidently not of a communicative temperament, and Robbie, who was in no humor for gossip, turned away.
It was of little use to remain longer.

All was over.

The worst had come to the worst.

He might as well turn towards home.

But how hot his forehead felt! Could it have been that ducking his head in the river at Wythburn had caused it to burn like a furnace?
Robbie thought of Sim.