“Oh! I never wear ’em—they does for my boys on Sundays. I smoke a pipe at home.”
The Fallowfield farmer held his length of crape aloft and inquired: “What shall do with this?”
“Oh, you keep it,” said one or two.
Coxwell rubbed his chin. “Don’t like to rob the widder.”
“What’s left goes to the undertaker?” asked Grossby.
“To be sure,” said Barnes; and Kilne added: “It’s a job”: Lawyer Perkins ejaculating confidently, “Perquisites of office, gentlemen; perquisites of office!” which settled the dispute and appeased every conscience.
A survey of the table ensued. The mourners felt hunger, or else thirst; but had not, it appeared, amalgamated the two appetites as yet. Thirst was the predominant declaration; and Grossby, after an examination of the decanters, unctuously deduced the fact, which he announced, that port and sherry were present.
“Try the port,” said Kilne.
“Good?” Barnes inquired.
A very intelligent “I ought to know,” with a reserve of regret at the extension of his intimacy with the particular vintage under that roof, was winked by Kilne.