"Ah, I see--a funeral!" he exclaimed as a mute advanced--assailed from each coach window, as he passed, with indecorous obloquy--to announce that the _cortege_ was ready to start.

For the last two minutes heads had been popping out at these windows--heads with dyed ringlets and heads with artificially coloured noses--and their owners demanding to know if Ben Jope meant to keep them there all day, if the corpse was expected to lead off the ball, and so on; and I, cowering by the coach step, had shrunk from their gaze as I flinched now under Mr.Whitmore's.
"Hallo!" said he, and gave me (as I thought) a searching look.
"What's this?
A chimney-sweep ?" "If your Reverence will not object ?" I turned my eyes away, but felt that this clergyman was studying me.
"Not at all," said he quietly after a moment's pause.

"Is he bound for Dock, too ?" "He said so." "Eh?
Then we'll see that he gets there.

After you, youngster!" To my terror the words seemed charged with meaning, but I dared not look him in the face.

I clambered in and dropped into a seat with my back to the driver.