“We lays Hilda out, me Rag an' me, on d' Petersens' bed; an' d' cor'ner sucker, as I says at d' be-ginnin', comes sprintin' over an' goes to holdin' his inkwests.
“Bimeby, d' mother gets home from her tubs, an' that's where d' hard play comes in. Me Rag tells her as easy as she can; but youse could see it was a centre shot all d' same. It soaked her where she lived.
“'Foist d' man, an' then d' baby!' says d' Petersen woman, as she sets on d' floor an' mourns; 'now I'll soon go hunt for 'em.'
“Me Rag tries to get her to come in wit' us, but she won't stan' for it. All t'rough d' night we hears her mournin' an' groanin' on d' floor be d' side of little Hilda's coffin.
“D' kid's fun'ral was yesterday, an' a pulpit sharp from one of d' Missions gets in on d' play, an' offishiates. Sure! it's a case of Potter's Field—for d' mother ain't got d' dough to make good for a grave—but me an' me Rag gets a car, an' takes d' mother out to see little Hilda planted. No, she don't cry much at that; but me Rag toins in an' don't do a t'ing but break d' record for tears. If Hilda was her own kid, she couldn't have made more of a row. When it comes to what youse might call 'd' outward evidences of grief,' me Rag simply lose d' Petersen mother.
“D' mother was feelin' it all d' same. She keeps whisperin' to herself: 'Soon I'll go find 'em!' like that; an' that's d' limit of what youse could get out of her.
“It's last night, after little Hilda's put away,—it's mebby, say, t'ree this mornin', when wit'out a woid of warnin' me Rag sets up straight in bed an' gives a sniff.
“'Be d' mother of d' Holy Mary! it's gas!' she says, an' nex' she makes a straight wake for d' Petersen door.
“An' me Rag guesses right d' very foist time, like d' kid in d' song. Gas it was; d' poor Petersen mother toins it on full blast. She's croaked an' cold as a wedge, hours before we tumbles to her game.
“That's d' finish. As I states d' foist dash out of d' box, it's d' dandy hard luck story of d' year. D' whole Petersen push is wiped out, same as that bar-keep would swab off his bar. On d' dead! it's all too many for me! What's d' use of folks bein' born at all, if dey's goin' to get yanked in like that—t'ree at a clatter, an' all young!