"Rale parson, or von of your men as usual?" continued the grave-digger, inquiringly.
"Oh, a friend of mine—a wery pious, savoury, soul-loving wessel, Jones—a man that it'll do your heart good to hear. But, I say, Jones," added the undertaker, "you're getting uncommon full here."
"Yes, full enow, sir; but I makes room."
"I see you do," said Banks, glancing towards the fire: "what a offensive smell it makes."
"And would you believe that I can scarcely support it myself sometimes, Mr. Banks?" returned Jones. "But, arter all, our ground isn't so bad as some others in London."
"I know it isn't," observed the undertaker.
"Now ain't it a odd thing, sir," continued the grave-digger, "that persons which dwells up in decent neighbourhoods like, and seems exceedin' proud of their fine houses and handsome shops, shouldn't notice the foul air that comes from places only hid by a low wail or a thin paling?"
"It is indeed odd enough," said Mr. Banks.
"Well, I knows the diggers in some o' the yards more west," continued Jones, "and I've heerd from them over and over agin that they pursues just the wery same course as we does here—has a Bone-House or some such conwenient place, and burns the coffins and bones that is turned up."
"I suppose it is necessary, Jones?" observed Mr. Banks.