“We can’t say nothing cheerful,” said the watchman, in low voice, to the two men near him, “so it’s best to keep quiet, except when necessary. Go in there first,” he added, pointing to the house wherein lay the dead girl.
While the two buriers went in and were carrying out the body, the watchman said to the man at the window: “Is your door locked?”
“They’re all dead,” he answered, “there’s no need coming in. You can’t help them any, and it’s better they remain here than be thrown into that black pit. I’ve seen it. I went out the night John Andrews died. They threw him in naked, and at least a hundred others were in the same great hole. It isn’t christian-like.”
“Come, open the door,” said the watchman.
“No,” returned the man. “They’re my dead.”
“He’s crazy,” whispered the watchman.
“And we have no time to spare,” suggested the driver.
“And you’ll have a load with the four over in that house,” said the watchman.
“To-morrow we’ll come for that pale face, too,” remarked the burier; and then they proceeded with their task at the other house.
Gyves nervously thought of his own family as he watched the proceedings in the lane. They lived in no better quarters, and although the plague had not yet visited his neighborhood, he could find little to cheer him in that fact.