“Jacob’s married!”
“No!”
“He is, Mester Dick, and theer’s a babby.”
“Never!” said Dick, laughing, to humour the great fellow, who wiped his eyes and became quite solemn now.
“Yes, that he hes, Mester Dick, and you’d nivver guess what he’s ca’d him.”
“Jacob, of course.”
“Nay, Mester Dick; he’s ca’d him Dave.”
Dick and Tom went down to the wheelwright’s again next day to chat over old times—fishing, shooting, the netting at the decoy, and the like; and heard how John Warren had lately died, a venerable old man, who confessed at last how he had helped Dave Gittan in some of the outrages when the drain was made, because he hated it, and said it would ruin honest men.
But it was not to see John Warren’s nor Dave Gittan’s grave that Hickathrift led the young men to the one bit of waste land left, and there pointed to a wooden tablet nailed against a willow tree.
“The squire give me leave, Mester Dick, and Jacob and me buried him theer when he died. Jacob painted his name on it, rather rough, but the best he could, and we’d hev put his age on it, as well as the date, if we’d ha’ known.”