“When I get that I must be careful,” he said to himself.
Though his rest had been disturbed, he felt ready to get up. There was work for him to do. He must arrange for the burial of the old man with whom he had lived so long, the only friend he felt he could claim.
Ernest rose, and after dressing himself made a frugal breakfast. He looked sadly at Peter. Death was to him something new and strange, for he did not remember ever having seen a dead man before. He must get help, and with that object in view he went to the village, and sought the store of Joe Marks.
“What brings you out so early, my lad?” asked Joe.
“Matter enough, Joe. My uncle is dead.”
He still called him uncle, though he knew now that Peter was no kin to him.
“Old Peter dead!” ejaculated Marks. “When did he die?”
“Some time during the night. I wish you’d help me, for I don’t know what to do.”
“So I will, boy. We’ll stand by you, won’t we, Luke?”