"I dunno, Mr Stich, that there's anything the matter," explained Jock Miggs with slow and sad deliberation, "but she's dead ... same as yesterday."
Involuntarily Philip laughed at the quaint, fatalistic statement.
"Hello!" said Miggs, looking at him with the same apathetic wonder, "who be yon lad?"
"That's my nephew Jim, out o' Nottingham," said John, "come to give me a hand."
"Morning, lad," piped Miggs, in his high treble, as he extended a wrinkled, bony hand to Stretton.
"Lud, John Stich," he exclaimed, "any one'd know he was one o' your family from the muscle he's got."
And gently, meditatively, he rubbed one shrivelled hand against the other, looking with awe at the fine figure of a man before him.
"A banging lad your nephew too," he added with a chuckle; "he'll be turning the heads of all the girls this side o' Brassington, maybe."
"Oh! I'll warrant he's got a sweetheart at home, eh, Jim lad?—or maybe more than one. But what brings ye here this day, friend Miggs?"
The wizened little face assumed a puzzled expression.