"Yes; died about an hour ago. Very strange. Never was more surprised in my life. Thought he was doing well. Sank all at once. Going to be buried to-morrow forenoon. Hot weather—they can't keep him. Good night."
"Good night."
Rising from supper as soon as possible without attracting attention, Rich made the best of his way to Coolbroth's. He met Pollard there, and found the family in great affliction.
"We don't any of us know what's afore us, Mr. Richardson," said Pollard; "'cause, if we had, we might have saved ourselves the trouble o' buryin' that leg, for we've got to dig it up ag'in in the mornin'."
"What are you going to dig it up for?"
"'Cause they want to lay him in that spot, side o' his sister; and then they want to put the leg in the coffin with the rest of him, as rights they should, poor feller."
"What time to-morrow will the funeral take place?"
"Ten o'clock. I shall have to be stirring 'arly, and begin by sunrise to dig the grave, 'cause they've nobody 'cept myself to call on, and I've got a master sight to see to."
Rich inquired no further, but went home in no little perturbation. He sat up in his room till twelve o'clock, then crept down stairs in his stocking feet, with his shoes in his hand, and without a light. Since the death of Gertrude, rats had multiplied on the premises. They had a regular road from the stable, through the porch, which they entered from beneath, through a hole in the floor. The night previous to the occurrences now to be narrated, one of these vermin had gnawed his way into the flour barrel. Dan had set a steel trap at the hole in the shed, where the rats came up, and quite out of the track of any one going to the stable. But Rich, fumbling along in the dark, put his foot in it.