CHAPTER XXIX.
TOM FLANNERY’S FUNERAL.
The grief of the broken hearted mother and the two faithful friends can better be imagined than described. Words, however ably chosen, fail utterly to picture the sufferings of the human heart. In imagination we can see the three bending over the still form of him to whose heart each was attached so firmly. One, a well aged woman, still clinging passionately to the cold hands and moaning with almost frantic grief. Now she presses the lifeless figure to her breast, appealing wildly to it to speak to her, to call her “mother” just once more. Again she falls upon her knees and prays as only one prays with bursting heart, that her boy, her Tom, her only child, her very life, may be restored to her. With her tears are mingled those of Herbert and Bob, whose young spirits overflow with sorrow, not alone for their own loss at the hands of death but at the wild, tumultuous grief of the bereaved mother.
A little later we see the undertaker arrive with all his dread paraphernalia, then the casket, a plain, neat one purchased by Herbert and Bob, in due time receives the dead body.
The funeral follows speedily, and is held in Mrs. Flannery’s rooms. In one of them she lies in bed helplessly ill from grief and utter prostration. All preparations for the burial have been made by Herbert and Bob. The minister arrives, and after a hurried talk with Herbert devotes himself to Mrs. Flannery, trying to lessen her sorrow by such words of consolation and assurance as his calling enables him to speak with something like holy authority.
A tall, fine looking man with a young, sweet faced girl now knocks at the door. They are Mr. Goldwin and his daughter, and the latter brings a cross of flowers for a burial offering. How strangely out of place they seem in these small, barely furnished attic rooms, yet they have come with honest purpose to pay honor to the humble dead. Mr. Goldwin had known of Tom’s brave part in rescuing Herbert from the villains by whom he had been imprisoned. He had at that time sent him a reward, and now he came sorrowfully to mingle his tears with those of the lowly friends of the dead. Ray had begged to come with him, and he was glad to grant her the request, for he felt that she would receive a lesson from this simple funeral such as could not be learned elsewhere.
A delegation of newsboys about the age of the dead now arrived. They had known him well as a rival trader, as a true friend and agreeable companion. They had often asked after him during his illness, and now they came, their bright young faces heavy with sorrow, to follow his remains to the tomb. They brought with them a handsome wreath of flowers bearing the simple word “Tom.”
The casket was carried into the sick room and placed on a table not far from the bed on which Mrs. Flannery lay sobbing. When all had been seated, the minister rose and prayed, such a prayer as is seldom offered. The occasion was an inspiration to the holy man. In all his years of ministry he had never been called upon to attend such a funeral as this—so simple, so strange, and yet so genuinely sad. It was a boy’s funeral, and the audience was composed almost wholly of boys. The casket had been bought by boys, the details of the funeral had been arranged by boys, and boys—nearly a score of them—were there to mourn the loss of their friend. And they were no ordinary boys, with careless, thoughtless manners, but sturdy lads who were almost men in thought, for long, long months had they, like the deceased, had to think and act for themselves.