“’E certinly seemed very pleased about something,” said Harlow. “I thought prap’s there was a undertaking job in: one o’ them generally puts ’im in a good humour.”
“I believe that nothing would please ’im so much as to see a epidemic break out,” remarked Philpot. “Small-pox, Hinfluenza, Cholery morbus, or anything like that.”
“Yes: don’t you remember ’ow good-tempered ’e was last summer when there was such a lot of Scarlet Fever about?” observed Harlow.
“Yes,” said Crass with a chuckle. “I recollect we ’ad six children’s funerals to do in one week. Ole Misery was as pleased as Punch, because of course as a rule there ain’t many boxin’-up jobs in the summer. It’s in winter as hundertakers reaps their ’arvest.”
“We ain’t ’ad very many this winter, though, so far,” said Harlow.
“Not so many as usual,” admitted Crass, “but still, we can’t grumble: we’ve ’ad one nearly every week since the beginning of October. That’s not so bad, you know.”
Crass took a lively interest in the undertaking department of Rushton & Co.’s business. He always had the job of polishing or varnishing the coffin and assisting to take it home and to “lift in” the corpse, besides acting as one of the bearers at the funeral. This work was more highly paid for than painting.
“But I don’t think there’s no funeral job in,” added Crass after a pause. “I think it’s because ’e’s glad to see the end of Owen, if yeh ask me.”
“Praps that ’as got something to do with it,” said Harlow. “But all the same I don’t call that a proper way to treat anyone—givin’ a man the push in that way just because ’e ’appened to ’ave a spite against ’im.”
“It’s wot I call a bl—dy shame!” cried Philpot. “Owen’s a chap wots always ready to do a good turn to anybody, and ’e knows ’is work, although ’e is a bit of a nuisance sometimes, I must admit, when ’e gets on about Socialism.”