“You can shave him, too, if you like.”
“If I th-thought you were s-serious—”
“Have some more brandy.” Mr. Jope pulled out and proffered a flask. “Only don’t overdo it, or it’ll make your head shaky. Serious? You may lay to it that Bill’s serious. He’s that set on the idea, it don’t make no difference to him—as you may have noticed—Eli’s mother not bein’ alive to take pleasure in it. Why, he wanted to embalm her, too! He’s doin’ this now for his own gratification, is Bill; an’ you may take it from me when Bill sets his heart on a thing he sees it through. Don’t you cross him—that’s my advice.”
“But, but—”
“No, you don’t!”—as the little man made a wild spring to flee up the beach Mr. Jope shot out a hand and gripped him by the coat collar. “Now, look here,” he said very quietly, as the poor wretch would have groveled at the parson’s feet, “you was boastin’ to Bill, not an hour agone, as you could stuff anything.”
“Don’t hurt him,” Parson Spettigew interposed, touching Mr. Jope’s arm.
“I’m not hurtin’ him, your reverence, only—Eli? What’s that?”
All turned their faces toward the store.
“Your friend is calling to you,” said the parson.
“Bad language, too?—that’s not like Bill, as a rule. Ahoy, there! Bill!”