He had every variety of coffin—from plain pine-wood up to the most polished mahogany and rosewood. His latest invention was "the casket," daintily lined throughout with white satin, and the lid so constructed as to expose the whole person instead of the face only, as in more common coffins. This was what Mr. Pall called "a dress coffin," and was perfectly consistent with any variety of adornment in the shroud that the fancy of grief-stricken affection might suggest.
When Watkins entered, Mr. Pall sat complacently in his chair amid his piles of coffins, with his hands solemnly folded over his handkerchief. He would have scorned to disgrace his profession, like many others of the craft, by reading the newspapers in his sanctum, smoking a cigar, or in any other way conveying the idea that he had lost sight of his mournful calling. We are not bound, therefore, to believe, on the authority of a prying policeman's limited vision through the key-hole, that when the shop was closed, Mr. Pall nightly drew from an old-fashioned coffin a bottle of whisky and a box of cigars, wherewith to console himself for the day's solemn and self-inflicted penance.
"Good morning, m-a-a-m," drawled the dolorous Pall.
"'Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound,
Mine ears attend the cry.'
"Want my mournful services, ma'am? I shall take a melancholy pleasure in showing you my coffins. Age of the corpse, ma'am?" and Pall used his white handkerchief.
"Six years."
"'Death strikes down all,
Both great and small—'
"Place of residence, ma'am?