"Be-low!" he shouted. "What in thunder do you want?"
The tassel of his nightcap fluttered in the cold blast, and particles of the crisp, frozen snow flew up in his face.
"Give me my child," replied Mr. Marsh.
"Oh, it's you, Marsh," said the undertaker, in a milder tone. "What's the use of asking for the body so early? You'll have it in a neat casket about the middle of the day. I can't work at night, besides, I didn't know you were in such an all-fired hurry."
"It isn't the body we want, it's the child."
"Comes to the same thing, and you've got to wait."
"Open the door and let us in."
"No, I'm derned if I do. Come at a proper time," growled the undertaker.
"For Heaven's sake, take pity on us!" cried Mrs. Marsh. "Will not a mother's tears move you?"
"Not by a bucketful, marm."