Mrs. M. I certainly shan't hold my hand, when I can get anything in it by reaching it out, for the sake of such a man as he was, I promise you, Joe. Don't drop that oil upon the blanket, now.
Joe. His blankets?
Mrs. M. Whose else's do you think? He isn't likely to take cold without 'em, I dare say.
Joe. I hope he didn't die of anything catching. Eh? (Stopping his work and looking up.)
Mrs. M. Don't you be afraid of that: I ain't so fond of his company that I'd loiter about him for such things if he did. Ah, you may look through that shirt till your eyes ache, but you won't find a hole in it nor a thread-bare place. It's the best he had, and a fine one, too. They'd have wasted it if it hadn't been for me.
Joe. What do you call wasting of it?
Mrs. M. (laughing.) Putting it on him to be buried in, to be sure. Somebody was fool enough to do it, but I took it off again. If calico ain't good enough for such a purpose, it isn't good enough for anything. It's as becoming to the body. He can't look uglier than he did in that one.
Joe. Well, well! I'll ruin myself again. I'll give you two guineas for the lot, and go to the bankrupt court. (Takes bag of coin and counts out their amounts.)
Mrs. M. Ha, ha! This is the end of it, you see. He frightened every one away from him when he was alive, to profit us when he was dead.