‘Becky Morgan?’ repeated David.
‘Yes,’ replied the sexton; adding in a half compassionate, half irritable tone, which the old man couldn’t hear, ‘you’re getting very deaf, Davy, very deaf to be sure!’
The old man stopped in his work, and cleansing his spade with a piece of slate he had by him for the purpose—and scraping off, in the process, the essence of Heaven knows how many Becky Morgans—set himself to consider the subject.
‘Let me think’ quoth he. ‘I saw last night what they had put upon the coffin—was it seventy-nine?’
‘No, no,’ said the sexton.
‘Ah yes, it was though,’ returned the old man with a sigh. ‘For I remember thinking she was very near our age. Yes, it was seventy-nine.’
‘Are you sure you didn’t mistake a figure, Davy?’ asked the sexton, with signs of some emotion.
‘What?’ said the old man. ‘Say that again.’
‘He’s very deaf. He’s very deaf indeed,’ cried the sexton petulantly; ‘are you sure you’re right about the figures?’
‘Oh quite,’ replied the old man. ‘Why not?’