hestnut mare tethered to
the gate-post, munching, mouth in nose-bag. In the gig was a sack,
standing upright--a remarkably tall sack, five foot ten high at least,
stiffly balanced against the seat.

"Aye, aye," said Jim to himself, "it was a six-foot coffin when they
planted Jock the day. Him an' me was much of an age and of a height,
poor lad; and here he is now, off to Edinburgh to be made mincemeat
of."

But even as he thought, he acted. The mare threw up an inquiring head as
she felt a light step in the gig, and a sudden lightening of her load.
But the wind wailed round the church and the rain beat down, dimming the
glass in the flickering lantern, and every now and then Jim could hear a
pick striking against a stone or a heavy thud as of a spadeful of damp
earth being beaten down. Out of the gig came the sack, and out of the
sack speedily came the packman's erstwhile acquaintance, Jock. A gap in
the hedge across the road conveniently accommodated Jock's unresisting
body, over he went into the next field, and once again the mare started
as Dandy Jim sprang into the gig with one bound and quickly struggled
into the empty sack. He was only just in time. A parting clatter of
pickaxe and thud of spade, a swing of the lantern, that sent a yellow
light athwart some grey old headstones, rough voices and hasty steps,
and two men appeared, pushed their implements into the back of the gig,
released the mare from her nose-bag, clambered in, one on either side of
the upright sack, and drove off at a quick trot.

For some time they proceeded in silence.

"A good haul," at last one man remarked; "a young chap--in fine
condition."

"A heavy load for the little mare," said he who held the reins;
"fifteen stone if he's a pound. Not an easy one to tackle afore he died
for want o' breath."

Packman Jim lurched against the speaker ere the words were well out of
his mouth. With an oath the man shoved him back, and Jim stiffly leaned
against the seat in as nearly the attitude of the corpse, to whom he was
acting as understudy, as he was able to assume. They had got a little
beyond Kalefoot, and the flooded river was sending its moaning voice
above the sough of the wind and the drip of the rain when one of the men
spoke again to his companion. His voice was husky, and he spoke in a low
tone as though he feared some eavesdropper.

"Before God, man," he said, "I can feel the body moving." The other, in
his voice all the horror of a