“‘Hush!’ says he. ‘Don’t—_don’t_ say that!’
“‘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?’
“‘No chill,’ says Bill, ‘an’ no fever? No ache in your back, is they, Tom?’
“‘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’ grass, 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 God! many a time an’ gladly.
“Bill Hulk stopped dead in the path. ‘What’s that?’ says he.
“‘I’ve heared it afore,’ says he, ‘somewheres.’
“‘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.’
“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’ God. 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’ would surely make it if the wind held true a few years longer. ‘Twelve thirty more, Tumm,’ says he, ‘an’ if ’twasn’t for the pork I might manage it this season. The longer you lives, Tumm,’ says he, ‘the more expensive it gets. Cost me four fifty las’ season for Dr. Hook’s Surecure Egyptian Lumbago Oil, an’ one fifty, Tumm, for a pair o’ green glasses t’ fend off blindness from the aged. An’ I jus’ got t’ have pork t’ keep my ol’ bones warm. I don’t _want_ no pork,’ says he; ‘but they isn’t no heat in flour, an’, anyhow, I got t’ build my shoulder muscles up. You take a ol’ hulk like mine,’ says he, ‘an’ you’ll find it a wonderful expensive craft t’ keep in sailin’ order.’