"It's lucky we are not all delicate," said Miles, "or the poor fellows would be left unburied. I suppose if anything happens to you, Peabody, you will expect us to bury you?"
"Oh, don't mention such a thing, Mr. Miles," entreated Peabody, showing symptoms of becoming hysterical. "I really can't bear it."
"It's my belief that nature has made a mistake, and Peabody was meant for a woman," said Miles, shrugging his shoulders.
"I will assist you, my friend," said the Scotchman. "It's all that remains for us to do for the poor fellows."
"Not quite all," said Tom. "Somebody ought to write to the poor wife. We have her address in the letter you took from the pocket."
"Well thought of, my lad," said Fletcher. "Will you undertake it?"
"If you think I can do it properly," said Tom modestly.
"It'll be grievous news, whoever writes it. You can do it as well as another."
In due time Mrs. Collins received a letter revealing the sad fate of her husband, accompanied with a few simple words of sympathy.
Over the grave a rude cross was planted, fashioned of two boards, with the name of James Collins, cut out with a jack-knife, upon them. This inscription was the work of Miles.