At home, under lock and key, he had fashioned two heads of putty. One, albeit still unpainted, indubitably resembled Sarah Jane; the other--a shrunken visage, with eyes made of grey slate and high cheek-bones, represented the farmer, Hilary Woodrow. A mass of bright tow hair fell about the female face; the male puppet wore a round hat. Presently William intended to paint these effigies up to the colour of life. Sarah Jane he had secretly studied when she came to visit his sister. Her pure, bright skin, just beginning to take the kiss of the sun as he warmed the spring again, he already knew. As for the male doll, putty-colour came almost near enough to the cadaverous deterioration of the original. "How long will it be afore all's ready?" asked Jarratt. "A matter of three days. I'll bring the heads up in a basket an hour before the show. Taverner's going to look after the torches, and Dicky Prowse fetches up the coffins after dark Sunday." "I'm only thinking of the man. Monday's the best day for him. He goes into Tavistock often of a Monday, and comes home by Lydford way. The point is to hit on a night when he'll be passing by here just at the proper moment. We must made dead sure of him. If he don't actually come face to face with the funeral, half the fun's out of it." William Churchward assented to this opinion. "I'd dearly like to coax her here also; but perhaps that would be a thought too rough," he said. "Yes, we can't do that. I'm not desirous to hurt her at all. 'Tis him I'm aiming at--just to let the gas out of him a bit and larn him that he ain't under the special care and charge of Providence, but have to share the rough edge of things along with his betters." William nodded. "Of course you've got proof positive," he said. "I have--my own eyes and another pair. Besides that I've got her, come to think of it. You know her fashion. 'Tis true, I reckon, that she never told it; but when 'tis blowed, she won't deny it, whatever the farmer might be tempted to do. Anyway, he's at death's door, so we shan't hurt him." "If 'twas a thing of yesterday, I should be rather frightened of the job," confessed William. "But seeing the matter's five years old and more--what's the odds to any sensible person?" "Quite right. If they let it hurt 'em--more fools them. Anyway, the man's no friend to me, or anybody else, for all his cant. He's brought this on himself." "There--that's about all I can do for this pair of legs," said William. "Now we'll lock up and be gone. Come and see 'Sarah Jane.' You'll want to kiss her when I've painted her!" CHAPTER XII THE MOCK BURIAL