alone was stirring, but she had a smart fire crackling in the range, and was full of business.
“You children go and sleep now. We’ve all got work to do later in the day.”
Luke and Eugene went into the big dining-room which Eliza had converted into a bed-room.
“D-d-d-damn if I’m going to sleep upstairs,” said the sailor angrily. “Not after this!”
“Pshaw!” said Eliza. “That’s only superstition. It wouldn’t bother me a bit.”
The brothers slept heavily until past noon. Then they went out again to see Horse Hines. They found him with his legs comfortably disposed on the desk of his dark little office, with its odor of weeping ferns, and incense, and old carnations.
He got up quickly as they entered, with a starchy crackle of his hard boiled shirt, and a solemn rustle of his black garments. Then he began to speak to them in a hushed voice, bending forward slightly.
How like Death this man is (thought Eugene). He thought of the awful mysteries of burial—the dark ghoul-ritual, the obscene communion with the dead, touched with some black and foul witch— magic. Where is the can in which they throw the parts? There is a restaurant near here. Then he took the cold phthisic hand, freckled on its back, that the man extended, with a sense of having touched something embalmed. The undertaker’s manner had changed since the morning: it had become official, professional. He was the alert marshal of their grief, the efficient master-of— ceremonies. Subtly he made them feel there was an order and decorum in death: a ritual of mourning that must be observed. They were impressed.
“We thought we’d like to s-s-s-see you f-f-f-first, Mr. Hines, about the c-c-c-c-casket,” Luke whispered nervously. “We’re going to ask your advice. We want you to help us find something appropriate.”
Horse Hines nodded with grave approval. Then he led them softly back, into a large dark room with polished waxen floors where,
