“Yes, indeed, we may, Gran’fer,” she said, smiling. “For it’s his own funeral he’s conducting. He’ll soon come a cropper.”
“Blast him!” growled the Gaffer.
“Hush!” Jinny was shocked. “It’s all as fair as fair.”
“For over a hundred year we’ve fetched and carried ’twixt Bradmarsh and Chipstone, and now this scallywag with his new-fangled black hosses——” A fit of coughing broke off the speech, and he suddenly looked so much like the last stage of man in the Spelling-Book that Jinny had to put him back into his chair.
“Didn’t I say you’d get into a state? But you know there’s more carrying than I—than we can manage. Haven’t you sent lots of our customers away?”
“Curse ’em!” said the Gaffer comprehensively. “Warmin! And Oi told ’em sow to their head!”
“He’s only got our leavings, you see.” And she burst out in gay parody:
“There is black, both of black,
Let ’em run till they crack,
’Tis Methusalem bears the bells away.”