“Why shouldn’t they? Men have been buried quick before now, and why not me?”
I laughed, but looking at him, I noticed that his forehead was wet with beads of perspiration not called forth by his labor.
“How long have you been digging graves?” I asked in a matter of way to help him recover his self-possession.
“Six year come Martlemas.”
He resumed his work for awhile and I stood watching him and pondering. Presently I said: “You buried my brother, then?”
“Ay,” he answered, heaving out a big clod of earth with an effort, so strained that it seemed to twist his face into a sort of leering grin.
“I was ill when my brother died,” I said, “and have lived since in London. I don’t know where he lies. Show me and I’ll give you the price of a drink.”
He jumped out of the pit with alacrity and flung his coat over his shoulders, tying the dangling arms across his breast.
“Thart’s easy arned,” he cried, hilariously. “Come along,” and he clumped off across the grass.
“See there!” he said, suddenly, stopping me and pointed to a mangy and neglected mound that lay under a corner of the yard wall.