“Let’s get him to a softer bed,” says Master.
He ups the corpse, carries it aloft to the room we know full well, bumps Pantaloon down, twitches an eyelid, taps a kneecap, feels a pulse.
“Dead as a doornail,” he pronounces. “It’s not a doctor you want, it’s an undertaker.”
Missus has a handkerchief very dutifully and correctly to her eyes.
“You just run along and get one,” she says to hag. “And then I’ll read the will. Because don’t think he’s forgotten you…”
So off goes hag; you never saw a woman of her accumulated Christmases sprint so fast. As soon as they are left alone, no trifling, this time; they’re at it, hammer and tongs, down on the carpet since the bed is occupé.