"'Peace'! Damn his peace! What peace shall he have that killed his own father? He don't deserve to look upon me again, and he shan't—living nor dead—mark that. Tell your mother that when I'm dead, Rupert ban't to see me. Only the coffin lid shall he see."
The old man snorted and groaned. Then he spoke again.
"Have you got pen and ink ready?"
"Yes, father."
"Turn to the first leaf of the Bible, then, and see my date."
Ned opened the family register and read the time of his father's birth.
"Born June, died January—and just over the allotted span. Let me see, how shall the stone read? There's good things on the Baskerville stones. 'Sacred to the memory of Vivian Baskerville, of Cadworthy Farm, in this parish, yeoman.' You can begin like that."
"Shall you say anything about being champion of the west country at wrestling?" asked Ned.
"No. That ban't a thing for the grave—at least, perhaps it might be. Your uncle, the great musicker, had a fiddle cut 'pon his stone very clever. If 'twas thought that the silver belt could be copied upon my slate—— But no, let that pass, 'tis but a small matter."
"Better leave it to us to think about. Uncle Nathan will know best."