"How's that?"
"Third we've had inside o' a year. Had one fur nigh onto forty year, but he up an' died."
"Longevity?" gravely inquired Mott.
"Like enough; though some folks thought 'twas softenin' o' th' brain; but my 'pinion is he never had any brains to get soft. Still he were a good digger, but the man we got next was no good."
"What was the trouble with him? More longevity?"
"No; he buried everybody with their feet to the west."
"Isn't that the proper thing?"
"No, 'tisn't!"
"Why?"
"Any fool knows ye ought t' be buried with yer feet t' the east."