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Don't ye fash about them as lies under ye, or that doesn' lie there either! It'll be time for ye to be getting scart when ye see the tombsteans all run away with, and the place as bare as a stubble-field. There's the clock, and I must gang. My service to ye, ladies!" And off he hobbled.
"Me and Sam are the regular keepers now; but the Board lets him live on here, and he's terrible clever at polishing." "He knows the lamp so well as ever he did," broke in the old woman; "the leastest little scratch, he don't miss it. How he doesn' break his poor neck is more'n I can tell; but he don't though 'tis a sore trial."
The woman withdrew about a dozen pins from her mouth and answered all in one breath: "She isn't called Best any longer; she married agen five year ago; second husbing, he died too; she doesn' live here any more." With this she stuck the pins very deliberately, one by one, in the bosom of her print gown, and plunged her hands into the wash-tub again.
"I'm not a past-master, yet," he said. "I haven't reached the point where I can believe my own lies; so I don't tell 'em and get caught. I've dug down in the mortuaries of other men too often long as a man doesn 't believe his own lies, he's on guard and doesn't get caught. It's when he comes ping against a buzz-saw and finds it's a fact that he has to pay or back down or lose out.
"Die-rigitable," added Rat-it-all. "That's the point." "Well? . . . Have 'ee seen any?" Nicky-Nan lifted his gaze skyward. "I won't go so far as to say that I've seen anything answerin' to that description knockin' about not up to the present. But these are times when a man must keep his eyes liftin' if he doesn' want Old England to be taken with what the newspapers call a Bolt from the Blue."
"You should have thought of that before," he said, employing the one obvious answer. "O' course I thought of it. But for love o' you I made up my mind to risk it. An' now there's no goin' back." She paused a moment and then added, as a thought struck her, "Why, lad, doesn' that prove I love 'ee uncommon?" "I prefer not to consider the question. Once more will you go back?" "I can't."
Yo' see a cotton plant doesn' grow mo'n about fo' feet high an' thar's always a lot of it that's shorter. The bolls hang low, sometimes, an' yo've got to go pickin', pickin', stoopin' halfway oveh an' the hot sun beatin' down on yo' neck an' back. Since the war the planters have tried all sorts o' labor, but thar's no white man that c'n pick cotton, they get blindin' headaches an' fall sick.
"Doesn' you want me to fetch you a li'l julep fer a mawnin'-mawnin'? It'll make yoh breakfas' set mighty good arter all dem peaches, an' I ain' fixed you none for why, it must be moh'n a month!" "No, you old sinner, I'm through with your mawnin'-mawnin's; and if you bring any around I'll take you to the grindstone!" Uncle Zack stroked his jaw and grinned. "Sho!
You don't catch me, though." "Why, Mr Nanjivell, you won't set yourself up to fly in the teeth of the law!" "Just you wait. . . . And Pamphlett doesn' know all the law that's in the land, neither, if he reckons to turn me out 'pon a Bank Holiday." Mrs Penhaligon stared. "Well, I s'wow!
I think he's got religion, Doctor; but he a'n't so bright about what's goin' on, 'n' I don' believe he never suspec' nothin' till somethin' happens; for the' 's somethin' goin' to happen, Doctor, if the Las' Day doesn' come to stop it; 'n' you mus' tell us what to do, 'n' save my poor Elsie, my baby that the Lord hasn' took care of like all his other childer."
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