"When I am dead, diddle, diddle, as well may hap,
Bury me deep, diddle, diddle, under the tap,
Under the tap, diddle, diddle, I'll tell you why,
That I may drink, diddle, diddle, when I am dry."
Hereupon, Bellew rose, and crossing to the open casement leaned out into the golden freshness of the morning. Looking about he presently espied the singer,—one who carried two pails suspended from a yoke upon his shoulders,—a very square man; that is to say, square of shoulder, square of head, and square of jaw, being, in fact, none other than the Waggoner with whom he had fought, and ridden on the previous afternoon; seeing which, Bellew hailed him in cheery greeting. The man glanced up, and, breaking off his song in the middle of a note, stood gazing at Bellew, open-mouthed.
"What,—be that you, sir?" he enquired, at last, and then,—"Lord! an' what be you a doing of up theer?"
"Why, sleeping, of course," answered Bellew.
"W'ot—again!" exclaimed the Waggoner with a grin, "you do be for ever a-sleepin' I do believe!"
"Not when you're anywhere about!" laughed Bellew.
"Was it me as woke ye then?"
"Your singing did."
"My singin'! Lord love ye, an' well it might! My singin' would wake the dead,—leastways so Prudence says, an' she's generally right, —leastways, if she ain't, she's a uncommon good cook, an' that goes a long way wi' most of us. But I don't sing very often unless I be alone, or easy in my mind an' 'appy-'earted,—which I ain't."
"No?" enquired Bellew.