“Won’t bury the little one?” Tom’s voice failed him, and he nodded shortly.
“Phew!”
Biggins gave a low, sibilant whistle. Then, flushing up, he exclaimed—
“Damn him! No—I don’t mean that. Lord forgive me for speaking so of a parson. But, I say, Tom—oh, no, he can’t mean it, lad. Tell you what, he’s a queer one, and as proud as a peacock, and his boys arn’t what they should be. You needn’t tell him what I say, for I don’t want to offend nobody, that’s my motter through life; but parson’s a parson, and he’s bound to practise what he preaches. You go and see him.”
“I mean to.”
“Shall I go with thee, lad?”
“No. I’ll go alone.”
“P’raps you’d better, lad. If he makes any bones about it, ask him as a favour—don’t be hot with him, Tom, but a bit humble. I know thee don’t like to ask favours of any man; but do’t for her sake, Tom—indoors.”
Biggins pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, and the wheelwright nodded.
“When is the best time to see him?” said Tom, after a few moments’ silence.