They sent to uncles and aunts and cousins throughout Great Britain: all who could arrived post haste on Monday. And what a gathering it was of outstanding members of the clan! Those who hadn’t recognised each other’s existence for years now forgot their ancient feuds, while one and all discovered such good qualities in the poor lad, and were so anxious to insist on the nearness of their relationship, that his death did not seem altogether in vain.
I myself wrote a note to the widow, only waiting to post it till I could get her address.
Miss Bretherton, the Rector’s niece, hurried home from London to do what she could to comfort the parents, who were aloof from the general excitement and knew only the sorrow of the occasion.
While waiting for further details to arrive, people made wreaths, and discussed how best the engine could be draped in black.
As there was no letter by Tuesday morning, and the vicar in Lancashire had again asked for particulars, the self-constituted committee of management decided to send a wire to the widow. After composing—and then discarding—twenty-six different messages, till the post-office was threatened with a famine in telegram forms, the post-mistress came to their assistance, and suggested that the wording should be as brief and as straightforward as possible, to save misunderstanding—and expense. Eventually they were all persuaded to agree to the following:
“What train will the coffin come by? Reply paid.”
In about an hour the widow answered:
“Whose coffin? Don’t know what you mean. Aleck nearly well.”
The whole village has had three points under discussion ever since.