, he put on his cap, thrust his hands in his pockets, and
set off for the town street, as eagerly as if his success in life
depended upon his obtaining that piece of leather instanter.

The place was perfectly empty as he reached the south end, the shops
looked nearly the same, save that at Grader the baker's there were four
covered glasses, containing some tasteless looking biscuits full of
holes; a great many flies, hungry and eager to get out, walking in all
directions over the panes; and on the lowest shelf Grader's big tom-cat,
enjoying a good sleep in the sun.

Vane did not want any of those biscuits, but just then he caught sight
of Distin crossing the churchyard, and to avoid him he popped in at the
baker's, to be saluted by a buzz from the flies, and a slow movement on
the part of the cat who rose, raised his back into a high arch, yawned
and stretched, and then walked on to the counter, and rubbed his head
against Vane's buttons, as the latter thrust his hands into his pocket
for a coin, and tapped on the counter loudly once, then twice, then the
third time, but there was no response, for the simple reason that Mrs
Grader had gone to talk to a neighbour, and John Grader, having risen at
three to bake his bread, and having delivered it after breakfast, was
taking a nap.

"Oh, what a sleepy lot they are here!" muttered Vane, as he went to the
door which, as there was no sign of Distin now, and he did not want any
biscuits, he passed, and hurried along the street to where Michael
Chakes sat in his open window, tapping away slowly at the heavy sole of
a big boot which he was ornamenting with rows of hob-nails.

Vane stepped in at once, and the sexton looked up, nodded, and went on
nailing again.

"Oughtn't to put the nails so close, Mike."

"Nay, that's the way to put in nails, Mester Vane!" said the sexton.

"But if they were open they'd keep a man from slipping in wet and
frost."

"Don't want to keep man from slipping, want to make 'em weer."

"Oh, all right; have it your own way. Here, I want a nice strong new
bit of leather, about six inches long."

"What for?"

"Never you mind what for, get up and sell me a bit."

"Nay, I can't leave my work to get no leather to-day, Mester. Soon as
I've putt in these here four nails, I'm gooing over to belfry."

"What for? Some one dead?"

"Nay, not they. Folk weant die a bit now, Mester Vane. I dunno whether
it's Parson Syme's sarmints or what, but see