And so, when it was done, I was twenty minutes late for the up mail and the cross-country post, and had to move my hands pretty sharp, I can assure you.

That doesn't matter; I got through it, with the driver of the cart obliging, by means of some beer and cold bacon.

But what I feared most was the Nepheton bag, having seen the old man at the funeral, and knowing what they do afterward.

I could not return him 'too late' again, or he would lose his place for certain, and a shilling a day made all the difference to him, between wife and no wife.

The old pair without it must go to the workhouse, and never see one another.