Ah, they would be sorry then--_she_ would be sorry! And after morning service in church, they would come and stand by his grave and say--_she_ would say, "He was young, but he lived nobly, though, alas! there was none to appreciate him. Ah, would that he were again alive!" Then they (she) would weep, yes, weep bitterly, and fling themselves (herself) upon the cold, cold ground. But all in vain. He (Hugh John Picton Smith, late hero) would lie still in death under that green sod and never say a word. No, not even if he could. Like Brer Fox, he would lie low. At this point Hugh John was so moved that he put his face down into his hands and sobbed.
A heavy clod of earth whizzed through the air and impacted itself with a thud upon the mourner's cheek, filling his ear with mud and sand, and informing him at the same instant that it carried a stone concealed somewhere about its person.
For though Nipper Donnan was now Vice-President of a Mutual Improvement Association, and at that moment spreading himself in a peroration upon the advantages of universal goody-goodiness, he had, happily for society and Hugh John, left exceedingly capable successors. The eternal Smoutchy was still very much alive, and still an amateur of clods in the town of Edam.
That sod worked a complete and sudden cure in Hugh John.
He rose like a shot. Few and short were the prayers he said, but what these petitions lacked in length they made up for in fervency. He pursued his assailant down the Mill Brae, clamoured after him round the Town-yards, finally cornered him at the Spital Port, punched his head soundly--and felt better.
So that night the unfortunate young martyr to the flouts and scorns of love, instead of occupying a clay-cold bier with his (adopted) ancestors in Edam Abbey graveyard, ate an excellent supper in the new house of Windy Standard, with three helpings of round-of-beef and vegetables to match. Then with an empty heart, but a full stomach, he betook himself upstairs to his room, where presently Toady Lion came to worship, and Prissy dropped in to see that all was well. She had spread prettily worked covers of pink silk over his brushes and combs, an arrangement which the hero contemplated with disgust.