“It’s an unked job,” said Bart at last. “But, poor lad, it’s the skipper’s wish. A lovely spot for a man to be put to rest.”
Dinny did not speak for a few moments. Then with an effort—
“Let’s get it done, me lad. I niver belaved in annything worse than the good people, and the phooka, and the banshee, of coorse; but it makes a man’s flesh seem to crape over his bones to come body-snatching, as ye may call it, on a dark night like this.”
They both stood hesitating and shrinking from their task for a few minutes longer, and then Bart stooped down and began to sweep back the sand.
“It’s laid light over him, Dinny, my lad,” he said. “Just sweep it away, and we can lift him into his coffin.”
“But—”
“He’s wrapped in a canvas for his winding sheet, lad. Sweep away the sand there from his feet.”
Dinny bent down and was in the act of scooping away the dry sand when he uttered a yell and darted away, followed by Bart, who was somewhat unnerved by his weird task, and who did not recover himself till they reached the boat.
“Here, what is it?” cried Bart, recovering himself, and grasping Dinny by the arm, feeling indignant now at his own cowardice. “Are you afraid of a dead man?”
“No; but he isn’t dead!” panted Dinny.