light and paused, gently agitating his club behind him, as he turned his hollow liverish face toward the open door.
“Here’s your patient,” said Coker softly, “the Constipated Cop.”
Aloud, with great cordiality, they all said: “How are you, Les?”
“Oh, tolable, tolable,” said the policeman mournfully. As draggled as his mustaches, he passed on, hocking into the gutter a slimy gob of phlegm.
“Well, good morning, gentlemen,” said Horse Hines, making to go.
“Remember what I told you, Horse. Be good to Coker, your best friend.” McGuire jerked a thumb toward Coker.
Beneath his thin joviality Horse Hines was hurt.
“I do remember,” said the undertaker gravely. “We are both members of honorable professions: in the hour of death when the storm— tossed ship puts into its haven of rest, we are the trustees of the Almighty.”
“Why, Horse!” Coker exclaimed, “this is eloquence!”
“The sacred rites of closing the eyes, of composing the limbs, and of preparing for burial the lifeless repository of the departed soul is our holy mission; it is for us, the living, to pour balm upon the broken heart of Grief, to soothe the widow’s ache, to brush away the orphan’s tears; it is for us, the living, to highly resolve that—”
“—Government of the people, for the people, and by the people,” said Hugh McGuire.
“Yes, Horse,” said Coker, “you are right. I’m touched. And what’s more, we do it all for nothing. At least,” he added virtuously, “I never charge for soothing the widow’s ache.”
“What about embalming the broken heart of Grief?” asked McGuire.
“I said BALM,” Horse Hines remarked coldly.
“Stay, Horse,” said Harry Tugman, who had listened with great interest, “didn’t you make a speech with all that in it last summer at the Undertakers’Convention?”
“What’s true then is true now,” said Horse Hines bitterly, as he left the place.
“Jesus!” said Harry Tugman, “we’ve got him good and sore. I
