Every Man for Himself Part 42

"'That don't matter,' says Neverbudge.

"'Not matter!' says he. 'Can you tell me, Tom Neverbudge, the _names_ o'

them children?'

"'Not me.'

"'Nor yet their father's name?'

"'No, sir.'

"'Then,' says Bill, 'as a religious man, is you able t' tell me they was born in a proper an' perf.e.c.kly religious manner?'

"'I isn't,' says Neverbudge. 'I guarantees nothin'.'

"'An' yet, as a religious man,' says Bill, 'you stands there an' says it doesn't matter?'

"'Anyhow,' says Neverbudge, 'it doesn't matter _much_'

"'Not much!' cries Bill. 'An' you a religious man! Not much t' lie for good an' all,' says he, 'in the company o' the d.a.m.ned?'

"With that Tom Neverbudge put off in a rage.

"'Uncle Billy,' says I, 'what you wantin' that plot for, anyhow? 'Tis so damp 'tis fair swampy.'

"'Nothin' much,' says he.

"'But what _for?_' says I.

"'Well,' says he, 'I wants it.'

"'An' 'tis on a side-hill,' says I. 'If the dunderheads doesn't dig with care, you'll find yourself with your feet higher'n your head.'

"'Well,' says he, 'I wants it.'

"'You isn't got no friends in this neighborhood,' says I; 'they're all put away on the north side. An' the sun,' says I, 'doesn't strike here last.'

"'I wants it,' says he.

"'What for?' says I.

"'Nothin' much,' says he; 'but I wants it.'

"'But what for?' says I.

"'Well,' says he, in a temper, 'I got a _hankerin'_ for it!'

"'Then, Uncle Bill,' says I, for it made me sad,' I wouldn't mind them little graves. They're poor wee things,' says I, 'an' they wouldn't disturb your rest.'

"'Hush!' says he. 'Don't-_don't_ say that!'

"'Graves o' children,' says I.

"'Don't say no more, Tumm,' says he.

"'Jus' on'y poor little kids,' says I.

"'Stop!' says he. 'Doesn't you see I'm cryin'?'

"Then up come Tom Neverbudge. 'Look you, Bill Hulk!' says he, 'you can take that plot or leave it. I'll knock off seventy-five cents on account o' the risk you take in them children. Come now!' says he; 'you take it or leave it.'

"'Twenty-one fifty,' says Bill. 'That's a raise o' fifty, Tom.'

"'Then,' says Tom, 'I'll use that plot meself.'

"Bill Hulk jumped. 'You!' says he. 'Nothin' gone wrong along o' you, is they, Tom?'

"'Not yet,' says Tom; 'but they might.'

"'No chill,' says Bill, 'an' no fever? No ache in your back, is they, Tom?'

"'Nar a ache.'

"'An' you isn't give up the Labrador?'

"'Not me!'

"'Oh, well,' says Bill, feelin' easy again, 'I 'low _you_ won't never need no graveyard.'

"Tom Neverbudge up canvas an' went off afore the wind in a wonderful temper; an' then ol' Bill Hulk an' me took the homeward road. I remembers the day quite well-the low, warm sun, the long shadows, the fresh youth an' green o' leaves an' gra.s.s, the tinkle o' bells on the hills, the reaches o' sea, the peace o' weather an' Sabbath day. I remembers it well: the wheeze an' groan o' ol' Bill-crawlin' home, sunk deep in the thought o' graves-an' the tender, bedtime twitter o' the new-mated birds in the alders. When we rounded Fish Head Rock-'tis half-way from the graveyard-I seed a lad an' a maid flit back from the path t' hide whilst we crep' by; an' they was a laugh on the lad's lips, an' a smile an' a sweet blush on the maid's young face, as maids will blush an' lads will laugh when love lifts un high. 'Twas at that spot I cotched ear of a sound I knowed quite well, havin' made it meself, thank G.o.d! many a time an' gladly.

"Bill Hulk stopped dead in the path. 'What's that?' says he.

"'Is you not knowin'?' says I.

"'I've heared it afore,' says he, 'somewheres.'

"Twas a kiss,' says I.

"'Tumm,' says he, in a sort o' scared whisper, '_is they at that yet in the world?_'

"'Jus' as they used t' be,' says I, 'when you was young.'

"'Well,' says he, 'jig _me!_'

"Then I knowed, somehow, jus' how old ol' Bill Hulk must be.

"Well, thereafter," Tumm continued, with a sigh and a genial little smile, "they come lean years an' they come fat ones, as always, by the mystery o' G.o.d. Ol' Bill Hulk drove along afore the wind, with his last rags o' sail all spread, his fortune lean or fat as the Lord's own seasons 'lowed. He'd fall behind or crawl ahead jus' accordin' t' the way a careful hand might divide fish by hunger; but I 'lowed, by an'

all, he was overhaulin' Tom Neverbudge's twenty-three twenty-five, an'