“I do so; though ’twas a good few years ago I first heard en.”
“Yes,” said Lickpan, “that there old familiar joke have been in our family for generations, I may say. My father used that joke regular at pig-killings for more than five and forty years—the time he followed the calling. And ’a told me that ’a had it from his father when he was quite a chiel, who made use o’ en just the same at every killing more or less; and pig-killings were pig-killings in those days.”
“Trewly they were.”
“I’ve never heard the joke,” said Mrs. Smith tentatively.
“Nor I,” chimed in Mrs. Worm, who, being the only other lady in the room, felt bound by the laws of courtesy to feel like Mrs. Smith in everything.
“Surely, surely you have,” said the killer, looking sceptically at the benighted females. “However, ’tisn’t much—I don’t wish to say it is. It commences like this: ‘Bob will tell the weight of your pig, ’a b’lieve,’ says I. The congregation of neighbours think I mane my son Bob, naturally; but the secret is that I mane the bob o’ the steelyard. Ha, ha, ha!”
“Haw, haw, haw!” laughed Martin Cannister, who had heard the explanation of this striking story for the hundredth time.
“Huh, huh, huh!” laughed John Smith, who had heard it for the thousandth.
“Hee, hee, hee!” laughed William Worm, who had never heard it at all, but was afraid to say so.
“Thy grandfather, Robert, must have been a wide-awake chap to make that story,” said Martin Cannister, subsiding to a placid aspect of delighted criticism.
“He had a head, by all account. And, you see, as the firstborn of the Lickpans have all been Roberts, they’ve all been Bobs, so the story was handed down to the present day.”
“Poor Joseph, your second boy, will never be able to bring it out in company, which is rather unfortunate,” said Mrs. Worm thoughtfully.
“ ’A won’t. Yes, grandfer was a clever chap, as ye say; but I knowed a cleverer. ’Twas my uncle Levi. Uncle Levi made a snuffbox that should be a puzzle to his friends to open. He used to hand en round at wedding parties, christenings, funerals, and in other jolly company, and let ’em try their skill. This extraordinary snuffbox had a spring behind that would push in and out—a hinge where seemed to be the cover; a slide at the end, a screw in front, and knobs and queer notches everywhere. One man would try the spring, another would try the screw, another would try the slide; but try as they would, the box wouldn’t open. And they couldn’t open en, and they didn’t open en. Now what might you think was the secret of that box?”
All put on an expression that their united thoughts were inadequate to the occasion.
“Why the box wouldn’t open at all. ’A were made not to open, and ye might have tried till the end of Revelations, ’twould have been as naught, for the box were glued all round.”
“A very deep man to have made such a box.”
“Yes. ’Twas like uncle Levi all over.”
“ ’Twas. I can mind the man very well. Tallest man ever I seed.”
“ ’A was so. He never slept upon a bedstead after he growed up a hard boy-chap—never could get one long enough. When ’a lived in that little small house by the pond, he used to have to leave open his chamber door every night at going to his bed, and let his feet poke out upon the landing.”
“He’s dead and gone now, nevertheless, poor man, as we all shall,” observed Worm, to fill the pause which followed the conclusion of Robert Lickpan’s speech.
The weighing and cutting up was pursued amid an animated discourse on Stephen’s travels; and at the finish, the first-fruits of the day’s slaughter, fried in onions, were then turned from the pan into a dish on the table, each piece steaming and hissing till it reached their very mouths.
It must be owned that the gentlemanly son of the house looked rather out of place in the course of this operation. Nor was his mind quite philosophic enough to allow him to be comfortable with these old-established persons, his father’s friends. He had never lived long at home—scarcely at all since his childhood. The presence of William Worm was the most awkward feature of the case, for, though Worm had left the house of Mr. Swancourt, the being hand-in-glove with a ci-devant servitor reminded Stephen too forcibly of the vicar’s classification of himself before he went from England. Mrs. Smith was conscious of the defect in her arrangements which had brought about the undesired conjunction. She spoke to Stephen privately.
“I am above having such people here, Stephen; but what could I do? And your father is so rough in his nature that he’s more mixed up with them than need be.”
“Never mind, mother,” said Stephen; “I’ll put up with it now.”
“When we leave my lord’s service, and get further up the country—as I hope we shall soon—it will be different. We shall be among fresh people, and in a larger house, and shall keep ourselves up a bit, I hope.”
“Is Miss Swancourt at home, do you know?” Stephen inquired.
“Yes, your father saw her this morning.”
“Do you often see her?”
“Scarcely ever. Mr. Glim, the curate, calls occasionally, but the Swancourts don’t come into the village now any more than to drive through it. They dine at my lord’s oftener than they used. Ah, here’s a note was brought this morning for you by a boy.”
Stephen eagerly took the note and opened it, his mother watching him. He read what Elfride had written and sent before she started for the cliff that afternoon:
Yes; I will meet you in the church at nine tonight.—E. S.
“I don’t know, Stephen,” his mother said meaningly, “whe’r you still think about Miss Elfride, but if I were you I wouldn’t
