Chad and the rougher
sort of workmen kept aloof from the grave under the white thorn,
where the burial was going forward; but Sandy Jim, and several of the
farm-labourers, made a group round it, and stood with their hats off, as
fellow-mourners with the mother and sons. Others held a midway position,
sometimes watching the group at the grave, sometimes listening to the
conversation of the farmers, who stood in a knot near the church door,
and were now joined by Martin Poyser, while his family passed into the
church. On the outside of this knot stood Mr. Casson, the landlord of
the Donnithorne Arms, in his most striking attitude--that is to say,
with the forefinger of his right hand thrust between the buttons of his
waistcoat, his left hand in his breeches pocket, and his head very
much on one side; looking, on the whole, like an actor who has only a
mono-syllabic part entrusted to him, but feels sure that the audience
discern his fitness for the leading business; curiously in contrast with
old Jonathan Burge, who held his hands behind him and leaned forward,
coughing asthmatically, with an inward scorn of all knowingness that
could not be turned into cash. The talk was in rather a lower tone than
usual to-day, hushed a little by the sound of Mr.
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