“He’s a big fool—Dobbs is a fool.”
“A man cryin’ always looks a fool, the rum faces they makes when they’re blubbin’,” observed Harry. “Some o’ the Wykeford folk was there—Rodney was at his funeral.”
“Rodney? He didn’t like a bone in his skin. Rodney’s a bad dog. What brought Rodney to my son’s funeral?”
“He’s took up wi’ them preachin’ folk at Wykeford, I’m told, and he came down, I s’pose, to show the swaddlers what a forgivin’, charitable chap he is. Before he put on his hat, he come over and put out his hand to me.”
“And ye took it! ye know ye took it.”
“Well, the folk was lookin’ on, and he took me so short,” said Harry.
“Charlie wouldn’t ’a done that; he wouldn’t ’a took his hand over your grave; but you’re not like us—never was; you were cut out for a lawyer, I think.”
“Well, the folk would ’a talked, ye know, sir.”
“Talked, sir, would they?” retorted the Squire, with an angry leer, “I never cared the crack o’ a cart-whip what the folk talked—let ’em talk, d—— ’em. And ye had no gloves, Dickon says, nor nothin’, buried like a dog ’a most, up in a corner there.”
“Ye told me not to lay out a shillin’, sir,” said Harry.