“‘No chill,’ says Bill, ‘an’ no fever? No ache in your back, is they, Tom?’
“‘Nar a ache.’
“‘An’ you isn’t give up the Labrador?’
“‘Not me!’
“‘Oh, well,’ says Bill, feelin’ easy again, ‘I ’low you won’t never need no graveyard.’
“Tom Neverbudge up canvas an’ went off afore the wind in a wonderful temper; an’ then ol’ Bill Hulk an’ me took the homeward road. I remembers the day quite well—the low, warm sun, the long shadows, the fresh youth an’ green o’ leaves an’ grass, the tinkle o’ bells on the hills, the reaches o’ sea, the peace o’ weather an’ Sabbath day. I remembers it well: the wheeze an’ groan o’ ol’ Bill—crawlin’ home, sunk deep in the thought o’ graves—an’ the tender, bedtime twitter o’ the new-mated birds in the alders. When we rounded Fish Head Rock—’tis half-way from the graveyard—I seed a lad an’ a maid flit back from the path t’ hide whilst we crep’ by; an’ they was a laugh on the lad’s lips, an’ a smile an’ a sweet blush on the maid’s young face, as maids will blush an’ lads will laugh when love lifts un high. ’Twas at that spot I cotched ear of a sound I knowed quite well, havin’ made it meself, thank God! many a time an’ gladly.
“Bill Hulk stopped dead in the path. ‘What’s that?’ says he.
“‘Is you not knowin’?’ says I.
“‘I’ve heared it afore,’ says he, ‘somewheres.’
“Twas a kiss,’ says I.