I laughed to myself.

"Bill," I said, "what does this mean?"

Bill is a stout jolly chap with cheeks that look, after half a day's
haying, like raw beef-steaks. He paused on his load, smiling broadly,
his straw hat set like a halo on the back of his head.

"Expected a funeral," he said cheerfully.

Bill is the undertaker's assistant, and is always on call in cases of
emergency.

"What happened, Bill?"

"They thought they'd bury 'im this afternoon, but they took an' kep' 'im
over till to-morrow."

"But you came prepared."

"Yas, no time to go home in hayin'. The pump fer me, and the black
togs."

Bill calls the first rakings of the hay "tumbles," and the scattered
re-rakings, which he despises, he calls "scratchings." I took one side
of the load and John, the Pole, the other and we put on great forkfuls
from the tumbles which Bill placed skilfully at the corners and sides of
the load, using the scratchings for the centre.

John, the Pole, watched the load from below. "Tank he too big here," he