“Hold your hand,” cries Jasper, “and don’t throw while I stand so near him, or I’ll kill you! Come, Durdles; let me walk home with you tonight. Shall I carry your bundle?”
“Not on any account,” replies Durdles, adjusting it. “Durdles was making his reflections here when you come up, sir, surrounded by his works, like a poplar Author.—Your own brother-in-law;” introducing a sarcophagus within the railing, white and cold in the moonlight. “ Mrs. Sapsea;” introducing the monument of that devoted wife. “Late Incumbent;” introducing the Reverend Gentleman’s broken column. “Departed Assessed Taxes;” introducing a vase and towel, standing on what might represent the cake of soap. “Former pastrycook and Muffin-maker, much respected;” introducing gravestone. “All safe and sound here, sir, and all Durdles’s work! Of the common folk, that is merely bundled up in turf and brambles, the less said the better. A poor lot, soon forgot.”
“This creature, Deputy, is behind us,” says Jasper, looking back. “Is he to follow us?”
The relations between Durdles and Deputy are of a capricious kind; for, on Durdles’s turning himself about with the slow gravity of beery suddenness, Deputy makes a pretty wide circuit into the road and stands on the defensive.
“You never cried Widdy Warning before you begun tonight,” says Durdles, unexpectedly reminded of, or imagining, an injury.
“Yer lie, I did,” says Deputy, in his only form of polite contradiction.
“Own brother, sir,” observes Durdles, turning himself about again, and as unexpectedly forgetting his offence as he had recalled or conceived it; “own brother to Peter the Wild Boy! But I gave him an object in life.”
“At which he takes aim?” Mr. Jasper suggests.