“Sit down, Jacob, sit down,” said old Tom; “we can talk of him now.”
“Yes, now that he’s in heaven, poor fellow!” interposed the old woman.
“Tell me, Jacob,” said old Tom, with a quivering lip, “did you see the last of him? Tell me all about it. How did he look? How did he behave? Was he soon out of his pain? And—Jacob—where is he buried!”
“Yes, yes;” sobbed Mrs Beazeley; “tell me where is the body of my poor child.”
“Can you bear to talk about him?” said I.
“Yes, yes; we can’t talk too much; it does us good,” replied she. “We have done nothing but talk about him since we left him.”
“And shall, till we sink down into our own graves,” said old Tom, “which won’t be long. I’ve nothing to wish for now, and I’ll never sing again, that’s sartain. We shan’t last long, either of us. As for me,” continued the old man with a melancholy smile, looking down at his stumps. “I may well say that I’ve two feet in the grave already. But come, Jacob, tell us all about him.”
“I will,” replied I; “and my dear Mrs Beazeley, you must prepare yourself for different tidings than what you expect. Tom is not yet shot.”
“Not dead!” shrieked the old woman.
“Not yet, Jacob;” cried old Tom, seizing me by the arm, and squeezing it with the force of a vice, as he looked me earnestly in the face.