‘The brass band contest, Robert? I don’t see how the brass band contest could make you get tipsy and tumble into the grave you were digging, as I heard you did. Is it true?’
‘Ay, every word on ’t’s true, Miss Margit—more’s th’ pity.’
‘Shame on you! But how did it happen?’
He twirled his hat round by the brim, and a lurking smile and twinkle of the eye betrayed his inner consciousness that the affair had a ludicrous as well as a ‘deplorable’ side.
‘Well, Miss Margit, I’d getten th’ grave above half-finished, when I yeard th’ brass bands comin’ along to th’ Plough Inn, and it were th’ middle o’ th’ arternoon, and I were summan (some and) dry, and I were vary anxious for to hear who’d won, yo’ know, so I flings down my spade, and I went off to th’ Plough, and theer I found ’em all—every man on ’em. And we geet to talkin’, and first one offert me a drop, and then another, till I geet to’ much—I’m free to confess it. I remembered o’ of a suddent as th’ grave were to be ready again th’ mornin’, and I jumped up, and ran to th’ churchyard, and set to work to dig wi’ a will. And whether it was th’ heat—it were gradely hot—or whether I were fuddled, I know nowt about it, but I turned dizzy all of a moment, and I tummled down, and fell fast asleep. Th’ graves were o’er yonder, at th’ fur end o’ th’ yard, and mappen that were why no one seed me, and wakkened me oop, but when I did awake, it were well-nigh dark, and I couldna tell for t’ life of me, where I were. So I sets oop and looks around, and there in the far distance I yeard th’ sound of a trumpet. My heart louped to my mouth, and I thowt, “Robert Stott, it’s last trump; up wi’ thee!” and I ups and clambers out, and stands still. Ne’er a soul could I see, and aw’ were as still as death. Findin’ mysel’ alone, I took courage, for I knew as the more part should be o’ th’ wrong side i’ th’ day o’ judgment—our parson’s olez said so, and I’ve a feelin’ as he’s reet. Then again I yeard th’ trumpet-blast, and I looked around again. “What, no more righteous?” I said to mysel’. “Eh, but it’s a poor show for Wellfield.”’
‘Robert!’ was all that Miss Shuttleworth could ejaculate, horror-struck.
‘Yes, Miss Margit?’
‘What you say proves you to be in a very unsatisfactory frame of mind as regards religion.’
‘Well, ma’am, I’ve olez agreed gradely well with th’ owd vicar. It’s a grand thing to be reet, Miss Margit—a grand thing it is—and we’re reet. I see my son-in-law a-calling to me, so I’ll say good-mornin’.’
With which, before she could stop him, Robert Stott had made good his escape.