"I be going, souls," he said. "These here lifeless carpses be getting to make me go goose-flesh along the spine. That true to life—that cruel true they be—that I shall dream bad dreams about 'em if I sit here gloating any more. They be a masterpiece of horror and dreadfuller without their heads than with 'em. I'll ax you to see me up the hill, Jacob, for 'tis a very difficult task for me to breast it alone at my age."
"So I will, then," answered Taverner. "And we'll drop into Noah Pearn's at the top."
"Spirits 'twill be for me, if anything," said Valentine. "I'm a bit down-daunted along of this gashly spectacle, and I'm almost sorry now I called upon my memory to help. 'Twill vex somebody for certain, and at my great age us ought to rise above politics. 'Tis a terrible gift of likeness-making the 'Infant' have got; but for my part I'd sooner be a common man, wi'out any such devilish cleverness."
"Don't you fear," said William. "Nobody will pull your old nose."
The painter, quite oblivious of the grave issues behind this outrage, pursued his operations in a light and cheerful spirit. Once taken in hand, he became exceedingly interested in his bizarre task; and now he had grown enthusiastic. He regarded the dolls as an advertisement of neglected talents, and he was only sorry that so much careful work must presently be buried in the earth. But he hoped it might be possible to dig his masterpieces up again.
At home, under lock and key, he had fashioned two heads of putty. One, albeit still unpainted, indubitably resembled Sarah Jane; the other—a shrunken visage, with eyes made of grey slate and high cheek-bones, represented the farmer, Hilary Woodrow. A mass of bright tow hair fell about the female face; the male puppet wore a round hat. Presently William intended to paint these effigies up to the colour of life. Sarah Jane he had secretly studied when she came to visit his sister. Her pure, bright skin, just beginning to take the kiss of the sun as he warmed the spring again, he already knew. As for the male doll, putty-colour came almost near enough to the cadaverous deterioration of the original.
"How long will it be afore all's ready?" asked Jarratt.
"A matter of three days. I'll bring the heads up in a basket an hour before the show. Taverner's going to look after the torches, and Dicky Prowse fetches up the coffins after dark Sunday."
"I'm only thinking of the man. Monday's the best day for him. He goes into Tavistock often of a Monday, and comes home by Lydford way. The point is to hit on a night when he'll be passing by here just at the proper moment. We must made dead sure of him. If he don't actually come face to face with the funeral, half the fun's out of it."
William Churchward assented to this opinion.