'That tin kettle wi' the hole in it. I've never stopped it. Put a bit o' cobbler's wax into the hole and some silverin' stuff over it, and you'll sell it quick off. Nobody won't find out till they comes to bile water in it.'
'I'll do that, father. Hush! I hear the horses coming.'
'I don't want to go wi' them. I hears singing.'
'It is the wind whistling.'
'No, Zit. It be the quiristers chanting in Ely. Do you hear their psalm?'
'No, we cannot hear them. They do not sing at night, and are also too distant.'
'But I does hear 'em singing beautiful, and this is the psalm they sing—"One pun' twelve—and hawthorn tea at four shillin'. There's profits."'
He was sinking. He weighed heavy on her bosom.
She stooped to his ear and whispered, 'Are you happy, father?'
'Happy? In course I be. One pun' twelve on them flails, and four shillin' on thorn leaves and sweepins—there's profits—profits—tremenjous!'