He was standing¹ immediately inside the door at the bottom, though it was so dark she could hardly see him. The villagers were audibly talking just without.

‘He’s sure to come, rathe or late,’ resounded² up the spiral in the vocal³ note of Hezzy Biles. ‘He wouldn’t let such a fine show as the comet makes to-night go by without peeping at it — not Master Cleeve! Did ye bring along the flagon, Haymoss? Then we’ll sit down inside his little board-house here, and wait. He’ll come afore bed-time. Why, his spy-glass will stretch out that there comet as long as Welland Lane!’

‘I’d as soon miss the great peep-show that comes every year to Greenhill Fair as a sight of such a immortal⁴ spectacle as this!’ said Amos Fry.

‘“Immortal spectacle,”— where did ye get that choice mossel, Haymoss?’ inquired Sammy Blore. ‘Well, well, the Lord save good scholars — and take just a bit o’ care of them that bain’t! As ’tis so dark in the hut, suppose we draw out the bench into the front here, souls?’

The bench was accordingly brought forth⁵, and in order to have a back to lean against, they placed it exactly across the door into the spiral staircase.

‘Now, have ye got any backy? If ye haven’t, I have,’ continued Sammy Blore. A striking of matches followed, and the speaker concluded comfortably, ‘Now we shall do very well.’

‘And what do this comet mean?’ asked Haymoss. ‘That some great tumult⁶ is going to happen, or that we shall die of a famine?’

‘Famine — no!’ said Nat Chapman. ‘That only touches such as we, and the Lord only consarns himself with born gentlemen. It isn’t to be supposed that a strange fiery⁷ lantern like that would be lighted up for folks with ten or a dozen shillings a week and their gristing, and a load o’ thorn faggots when we can get ’em. If ’tis a token that he’s getting hot about the ways of anybody in this parish, ’tis about my Lady Constantine’s, since she is the only one of a figure worth such a hint.’

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