“Is he sick?” moaned Arabella Weld, as she began to let her hair down, preparatory to a yell.
“Never touched him!” assured the friend. “Naw; Willie's off his feed a bit. You sees, madam, Willie hired out to a hypnotist purely in d' interest of science, an' he's been in a trance four days, see! That's why he ain't home. Bein' in a trance, he couldn't send woid. Now all he needs is a rest for, say, a week. Oughtn't to let him get out of his crib for a week.”
At 4 o'clock the next morning William Henry Weld began to see blue-winged goats. Arabella Weld “sprung” a glass of water on him.
“Give it a chase!” shrieked William Henry Weld, wildly waving the false beverage aside.
In his ratty condition he didn't tumble to the pure element's identity, but thought it was one of those Things.
At 5 o'clock A. M. William Henry Weld didn't do a thing but perish. When the glorious sun again poured down its golden mellow beams, the Undertaker had his hooks on him and Arabella Weld was a widow.
III
BUT to return to the Undertaker, the real hero of our tale. We left him in his studio poring over the epitaph of William Henry Weld, while Departed rehearsed his dumb and silent turn for eternity in the corner's lurking shadow. At last the Undertaker roused himself from his reveries.
“I must to bed!” he said; “it waxeth late, and tomorrow I propose for her in wedlock.”
Next morning the Undertaker arose refreshed. He had smote his ear for full eight hours. He felt fit to propose for his life, let alone the delicate duke of Arabella Weld.