“How’s it with you?” he asked. “A man may get a merry answer from you; and for my part, being near the end of my days, I shun sorrow where it can be done. Though it meets you everywhere. There’s nought else moving in town or country.”
“Don’t think it, Matthew,” urged the publican. “Sorrow be like a lot of other things; go to meet it and ’twill come half way. Put off sorrow till to-morrow, and very often you can stave it off altogether.”
“It’s no time for mourning either,” continued Titus. “It’s the time to be busy. Dan be gone; the memory of him be here. ’Tis for us to round off his history and let him be remembered as an honest man. And maybe afore a week’s out, ’twill be done.”
“Obi” had his glass in his hand, and at this noble sentiment he dropped it suddenly and it broke to pieces.
He shrugged his shoulders and produced twopence from his pocket and placed them on the counter.
“He’ve got his intellects, evidently. He knows it costs money to break glass,” said Bartley. “That one may say for him.”
“That he has,” assented Titus. “And as good-tempered as a bull-dog. Where’s my parcels? I must be going. Have you seen your daughter-in-law, Matthew?”
“Yes,” answered the gamekeeper. “I gave her a lift to Moreton. She’s gone to her aunt’s. She told me to tell you that she’d be in the yard of the White Hart afore seven o’clock. I hear poor Rix Parkinson be set on speaking to her afore he dies.”
“Yes; we’re going there now. Much may come of it.”