Next morning news came that Martin Tyrer had been taken very bad, and that the doctor had a poor opinion of him.  When Doctor Craddock, indeed, called later in the day to see Bob Wainwright, he confirmed the report with a sigh and a shake of the head: 

“I am afraid the poor old fellow has done for himself,” he said gravely.  “It is astonishing how obstinate some of these people are.  I am glad that you at least have had more sense, Wainwright”—­turning with a smile to Bob.

“I sh’d ha’ gone if I could ha’ getten foot to th’ ground,” returned Bob, glowering at him.

“Well, well, luckily for you you couldn’t, though it might not have been quite so serious with you.  But Tyrer was very ill indeed when he went, and now naturally he is very much worse.”

“Raly, it looks like a judgment,” observed Mrs. Wainwright, with an air of pious regret, “soom people might say it was, ye know, Doctor.  Martin, he’s been goin’ on awful to my husband—­that set up he were—­”

“Howd thy din!” interposed Bob, wrathfully; whereupon Mrs. Wainwright retired outside the door, waiting to pursue the conversation till the doctor should be ready to go downstairs.

When, a day or two after, Martin Tyrer died, Mrs. Wainwright received the tidings with the same mournful satisfaction.  It was what she had looked for, she remarked; she “couldn’t but feel that Martin was callin’ down a judgment on hissel!  Well, it was to be ‘oped that th’ A’mighty wouldn’t be ’ard with him, not but what he was ’ard enough, Martin was, wi’ other folks.  A body would ha’ thought that when he see the Gaffer laid up in’s chamber on Club Day he wouldn’t ’ave ’ad it in’s ‘eart to go castin’ up at him, same’s he did.”  But Mrs. Wainwright would say no more, Martin Tyrer was gone, poor man, an’ it did not become her to judge him.  Upon which she proceeded to say a great deal more, in exactly the same strain, until her Gaffer hammered on the floor with his stick, and requested her to stop that.

The whole family were much astonished on receiving invitations to Martin Tyrer’s funeral.  They had, indeed, heard that Mrs. Tyrer was going to give him a very nice burying—­that all Upton folks were going and a good many from Thornleigh too—­it was to be “summat gradely” every one said.  It was the kind of festivity which, as a rule, the Wainwrights much appreciated, but on this occasion they were rather affronted at being bidden to assist, and both the young men declared stoutly that they’d noan go if they knew it.

“Why not?” growled feyther from his big chair in the corner. (He was now well enough to hobble down stairs.) “You yoong chaps thinks too mich o’ yoursels—­I’m goin’ as how ’tis.”

Mrs. Wainwright positively gasped.  “Gaffer, thou’ll noan think o’ sich a thing—­thou as couldn’t so mich as walk on Tuesday!  I’m sure thou needn’t be puttin’ thysel’ out for Martin Tyrer!”

“I’m goin’ as how ’tis,” repeated Bob gloomily; he had been very gloomy all these days.  “I’m goin’ to foller Martin Tyrer to his long home, if I ha’ to hop,” he added sternly.  “Him an’ me has walked together for fifty-two year, an’ I’ll walk at Martin Tyrer’s buryin’!  Theer now, my mind’s made up.”