“Then along come the lean-cheeked, pig-eyed, scrawny-whiskered son of a squid which owned the bit o’ prope’ty that Bill Hulk had coveted for thirty year. Man o’ the name o’ Tom Budge; but as he seldom done it, they called un Neverbudge; an’ Gingerbread Cove is full o’ Never-budges t’ this day. Bill ’lowed I might as well go along o’ he an’ Tom t’ overhaul the bit o’ land they was tryin’ t’ trade; so out we put on the inland road—round Burnt Bight, over the crest o’ Knock Hill, an’ along the alder-fringed path. ’Twas in a green, still, soft-breasted little valley—a little pool o’ sunshine an’ grass among the hills—with Ragged Ridge t’ break the winds from the sea, an’ the wooded slope o’ the Hog’s Back t’ stop the nor’westerly gales. ’Twas a lovely spot, sir, believe me, an’ a gentle-hearted one, too, lyin’ deep in the warmth an’ glory o’ sunshine, where a man might lay his head on the young grass an’ go t’ sleep, not mindin’ about nothin’ no more. Ol’ Bill Hulk liked it wonderful well. Wasn’t no square o’ ground on that coast that he’d rather own, says he, than the little plot in the sou’east corner o’ that graveyard. “‘Sight rather have that, Tumm,’ says he, ‘than a half-acre farm.’ “’Twas so soft an’ snug an’ sleepy an’ still in that little graveyard that I couldn’t blame un for wantin’ t’ stretch out somewheres an’ stay there forever. “‘Ay,’ says he, ‘an’ a thirty-foot potato-patch throwed in!’ “‘‘’Tis yours at the price,’ says Tom Neverbudge. “‘_If_,’ says Bill Hulk, ‘’twasn’t a second-handed plot. See them graves in the sou’west corner, Tumm?’ “Graves o’ two children, sir: jus’ on’y that—laid side by side, sir, where the sunlight lingered afore the shadow o’ Hog’s Back fell. “‘Been there nigh sixty year,’ says Bill. ‘Pity,’ says he; ‘wonderful pity.’ “‘They won’t do you no harm,’ says Neverbudge. “‘Ay,’ says Bill; ‘but I’m a bachelor, Tom, used t’ sleepin’ alone,’ says he, ‘an’ I’m ’lowin’ I wouldn’t take so wonderful quick t’ any other habit. I’m told,’ says he, ‘that sleepin’ along o’ children isn’t what you might call a easy berth.’ “‘You’d soon get used t’ _that_,’ says Neverbudge. ‘Any family man’ll tell you so.’ “‘Ay,’ says Bill; ‘but they isn’t kin o’ mine. Why,’ says he, ‘they isn’t even friends!’ “‘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’ perfeckly 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 damned?’ “With that Tom Neverbudge put off in a rage.