“Indeed!” said Salis, rather gruffly. “I wish you could do without so many bottles of stuff, Moredock. But, there, I wanted to see you about the preparations.”
“Don’t you trouble yourself about that, sir,” grumbled the old fellow. “It ain’t the first time a Candlish has died, and I’ve put things ready. That’ll be all right, sir. That’s my business. You shan’t have no cause to complain.”
“Be a little extra particular about the church and the yard, Moredock; and, above all, have those sheep out. Mr May writes me word that he shall come down from town on purpose to read the service over Sir Luke, and he hates to see sheep in the churchyard.”
“’Member what I said, doctor?” chuckled the old man. “But what am I to do, sir? Churchwarden Sir Luke had ’em put there; who’s to order ’em to be took away?”
“I will!” said the curate sharply. “There, that will do.”
Moredock trudged away.
“I’m afraid I have a morbid antipathy to that old man,” said the curate.
“Ah, he’s a character.”
“Yes, and a bad one, too: I’m glad we have his grandchild away from him.”
“So am I, and if I were you, Salis, I’d keep a sharp look-out on the girl.”