“Look behind you, doctor.”
I looked through the rear window of my phæton, and saw, about fifty yards behind me, a long, black, undertaker’s wagon. On the seat, driving the sorry-looking steeds that were drawing the horribly suggestive vehicle, was—my friend, Nathaniel Black!
My undertaking friend was by no means quietly pursuing his gloomy way, but was gesticulating and winking suggestively to the people on the side walk. He would first flirt his knobby thumb in my direction with a “D’ye see him?” gesture, and then, with a “That’s what I’m here for” wink at everybody in sight, would grin all over his ugly face.
“A horrible coincidence!” I said faintly.
“Coincidence nothing!” howled Jack. “He’s been doing that ever since you got your new buggy!”
And I bought wine for Nathaniel, and for Jack, and for sundry of their friends—yea, and for all who were within the sound of their voices in their daily walks.
But, I borrowed the wherewithal to settle from Jack. And, by and by, when practice came, I gave my patronage to Nathaniel’s rivals.
Was the joke on me?
I wonder.
* * * * *