"Missus," says he, "if the Parson's anywhere alive, we'll find 'en:
and if that Frenchman be Old Nick himself, he shall rue the day he
ever set foot in Manaccan parish! Come'st along, Arch'laus--"
He took Spry by the arm and marched him out and down the garden path.
There, by the gate, what should his eyes light upon but his own
stolen tools! But by this time all power of astonishment was dried
up within him. He just raised his eyes aloft, as much as to say,
"Let the sky open and rain miracles!" and then and there he saw,
coming down the road, the funeral that both he and the Parson had
clean forgotten.
The corpse was an old man called 'Pollas Hockaday; and Sam Trewhella,
a fish-curer that had married Hockaday's eldest daughter, walked next
behind the coffin as chief mourner. My grandfather waited by the
gate for the procession to come by, and with that Trewhella caught
sight of him, and, says he, taking down the handkerchief from his
nose:
"Well, you're a pretty fellow, I must say! What in thunder d'ee mean
by not tolling the minute-bell?"
"Tak 'en back," answers my grandfather, pointing to the coffin.
"Take 'en back, 'co!"
"Eh?" says Trewhella.
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