He turned and spat behind him before answering.
“He died o’ cold i’ the inside, eh?”
“Something of that sort. The doctor’s certificate said so.”
“Ah!” He took off his cap again and rubbed his hot head all over with a whisp of handkerchief. “Supposing he’d been laid two fut and no more—it wur a smarl matter arter the rain to bust the lid and stick his fingers through.”
“A small matter, perhaps, for a living man.”
He glanced sidelong at me, then gingerly pecked at the mound with his foot.
“No grass’ll ever grow there,” said he.
“That remains to be seen.”
I took a sixpence from my pocket and held it out to him.
“Look here,” I said. “Take this, and I’ll give you one every week if you’ll do your best to make and keep it like—like the other graves.”