The funeral, it has just been said, took place on that day. "To-morrow night!" said Spurlock, in a wondering whisper. Near the door stood a pile of deal planks, behind which the carpenter ensconced himself in order to reconnoitre, unobserved, the proceedings of his idle apprentice. It felt too good. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled.
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