"While you're digging the grave," continued Mrs. 'Waters, calmly, "I'll
go in and clean up the mess."

The boatswain reeled and then fumbled with trembling fingers at his
collar.

Like a man in a dream he stood watching as she ran to the tool-house and
returned with a spade and pick; like a man in a dream he followed her on
to the garden.

"Be careful," she said, sharply; "you're treading down my potatoes."

The boatswain stopped dead and stared at her. Apparently unconscious of
his gaze, she began to pace out the measurements and then, placing the
tools in his hands, urged him to lose no time.

"I'll bring him down when you're gone," she said, looking towards the
house.

The boatswain wiped his damp brow with the back of his hand. "How are
you going to get it downstairs?" he breathed.

"Drag it," said Mrs. Waters, briefly.

"Suppose he isn't dead?" said the boat-swain, with a gleam of hope.

"Fiddlesticks!" said Mrs. Waters. "Do you think I don't know? Now,
don't waste time talking; and mind you dig it deep. I'll put a few
cabbages on top afterwards--I've got more than I want."