Cowering lower, we waited while a man might count fifty. Then came footsteps crunching the gravel, and a couple of men cross’d the path, bearing a large chest between them. In the light I saw the handle of a spade sticking out from it: and by his gait I knew the second man to be my one-ey’d friend.
“Woe’s my old bones!” he was muttering: “here’s a fardel for a man o’ my years!”
“Hold thy breath for the next load!” growl’d the other voice, which as surely was the good minister’s.
They pass’d out of the small gate, and by the sounds that follow’d, we guess’d they were hoisting their burden into a cart. Presently they re-cross’d the path, and entered the house, shutting the door after them.
“Now for it!” said I in Matt’s ear. Gliding forward, I peep’d out at the postern gate; but drew back like a shot.
I had almost run my head into a great black hearse, that stood there with the door open, back’d against the gate, the heavy plumes nodding above it in the night wind.
Who held the horses I had not time to see: but whispering to Matt, to give me a leg up, clamber’d inside. “Quick!” I pull’d him after, and crept forward. I wonder’d the man did not hear us: but by good luck the horses were restive, and by his maudlin talk to them I knew he was three parts drunk—on the funeral wines, doubtless.
I crept along, and found the tool chest stow’d against the further end: so, pulling it gently out, we got behind it. Tho’ Matt was the littlest man of my acquaintance, ’twas the work of the world to stow ourselves in such compass as to be hidden. By coiling up our limbs we managed it; but only just before I caught the glimmer of a light and heard the pair of rascals returning.
They came very slow, grumbling all the way; and of course, I knew they carried the coffin.
“All right, Sim?” ask’d the minister.