The old man was in his shirt-sleeves, and his coat hung up behind the door, with his cap above it, so that it bore a strong resemblance to the old sexton, who had apparently been bringing his existence to an end by means of a piece of rope belonging to a bell.
“Hallo, Dally!” said the old man, giving her one of his ghoulish grins, as if proud of the yellow tooth still left; “what have you come for?”
“I want to see squire’s funeral, gran’fa. To get a good place.”
“Ah, I know’d you’d come,” said the old man. “I say, Dally; Sir Tom Candlish, eh? Have you tried how it sounds?”
“What nonsense, gran’fa! and do a-done. You’ll have some one hear you.”
“He—he—he! Let ’em,” chuckled the old man; “let ’em. Sir Thomas Candlish, eh?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said the girl, giving her head a vain toss.
Boom! went the bell, after the rope had rattled; and the old man groaned with the effort.
“He—he—he! No, no, you don’t know,” he chuckled, moving sidewise, and giving the girl a sharp nudge with his elbow. “But, my word, Dally, you do look pretty this morning.”
“Don’t, gran’fa. What stuff!”