"Well, what's one man's meat is another man's poison, i' a manner o' speaking. 'Tis how ye look at things, I reckon, an' there's heads an' tails on ivery good piece o' money. So trade's middling, is't?"
"Oh, ay. Other trades grow slack, but ye cannot do without Sexton Witherlee i' Marshcotes parish. That's what I says to Parson a week come yestermorn. 'Parson,' says I, 'me an' thee hev getten likely trades. Folk allus need prayers, an' they allus need burying. Crops fail time an' time,' I says, 'an' sickness follows at after famine; an' that's money i' a Sexton's breeches pockets,' says I."
"Mebbe tha'rt right, Sexton; but I'd liefer live by putting sound liquor down folk's throats nor be shovelling earth a-top of 'em when they've getten past meat an' drink. But we munnot fratch, for we're near neighbours—me at th' Bull, an' thee i' th' kirkyard hard by, an' each to his own trade, says I, choose who hears me say 't.—'Tis a drear business, this o' th' Maister o' Marsh. Th' burying is fixed for twelve o' th' clock, they tell me."
"Ay, sure; he'll be ligged i' bed here all ship-shape, will th' owd Maister, come a half hour after nooin."
"He's nobbut been laid out two days an' less, hes he? How should that come about, like? 'Tis nobbut decent I allus did say, to give a corpse its full time on th' bier—'specially a gentle-born corpse, that looks for so mich more attention or a common un."
"Nay, I've a fancy that they thowt they mud as weel get th' burying done wi' afore th' Ratcliffes war up to ony o' their tricks. Leastways that war what Nanny telled me, an' she war watching th' body all last neet at Marsh. I've been fettling up a bit, an' pondering a bit, an' going ower th' owd days. Eh, Jonas, but we shall see what we war meant to see afore th' winter comes again."
"What—fighting, dost think?"
"Ay, we shall that. I've getten a tidy-parcel o' Waynes down here, an' I can reckon five o' th' Marsh lot, let alone t' others, that fell by Ratcliffe swords an' Ratcliffe pistols, an' there's few knows as I do what a power o' hate ligs 'twixt Wildwater an' Marsh. I tell thee, lad, it maks my owd blood warm to think o' th' brave times coming back."
"I can niver stop wondering at thee, Sexton," said Jonas Feather, settling his arms more easifully on his stick. "Tha'rt a little, snipperty chap, as full o' dreaminess as a tummit is full o' waiter; tha's getten th' rheumatiz i' legs an' shoulder-blades, an' ivery winter brings thee browntitus, sure as Christmas. Yet here tha stands, an' I can see thy een fair blaze again when tha talks o' fighting. Hast iver seen owt o' th' sort, or is't just fancy, like?"
The Sexton laughed, a dry and feeble laugh. "I've seen part blood-letting, Jonas; an' ivery neet as I sit i' th' settle after th' day's moil is owered wi', I go backard i' my thowts. Small wonder that I'm gay, like, to think that soon there'll be a fight to butter my bread at ivery meal-time."