"I’ve a good piece of oak here, seasoned wood, what about that? I cut a coffin for Colonel Pendarves out of it, but there’s enough for another." Bargaining was second nature to these men and Henwood, in suggesting what he knew would not be acceptable, was only observing the rules of the game. Byron made the expected answer. "Oak ’edn’t for the likes o’ we, it’s for the gentry folk. What other ’av you got?" "There’s ellum. It’s good hard wood and lastin’." "Don’t matter ’ow long it last when ’tis once in under the earth." Henwood led the way into the shed and pointed to some timber. "Why don’t you ’av a polished pitch pine wi’ brass fittin’s? Thiccy stuff was only landed last week." He touched the wood with spatulate hands, the hands of the craftsman. Next to his beer he loved ’a bit o’ seasoned wood.’ "You wouldn’t wish for a handsomer coffin than that ’uld make." "Pitch pine is more like it," agreed the buyer. "What would it cost?" "I dunno as I could tell ’ee to a pound or two. There’s a lot o’ things to consider. There’s the linin’s and the fittin’s; and then there’s the gloves for the bearers and their ’arf crowns. Was you thinkin’ to ’av one set of bearers or two?" "’Tis a braäve way to Church Town and the missus was a big woman, I think we better ’av the two." "Sixteen half-crowns is a good bit. That’ll make two pound. You see that tally up." "Well, ’av it done decent, but she wouldn’t like no show nor fuss. I know she wouldn’t." "We’ll ’ave it plain as possible then." He made a note on the wood itself and then stood thoughtful. "When would you like to ’av it?" "Mrs. Rosevear said I’d better leave it to you." Henwood tapped his teeth with the broad wood pencil. "Weather’s braäve and cold," he said meditatively, "but if she died off sudden——" "She done ’er day’s work as usual and ate a good supper but doctor said ’twas ’er ’eart. Accident must ’av strained it. ’E didn’t think she’d live so long as she ’av." "She must ’er died on a full stomach, so I should bury her up as soon as we can. To-day’s Saturday, but I can be ready by Monday." "We must ’av it that way." "Very well, then, tell Mrs. Rosevear we shall leave the ’ouse at ’arf-past one." As Byron went out, the little man’s glance travelled beyond him on an errand in no way connected with the business in hand. Life was ’terrible short’ and he must make the most of his time, get down as many ’cups o’ beer’ as he could before his journeymen were set to make that coffin which must be put together without his help. The Farmer’s Arms beckoned and he went. *CHAPTER XIX*