“Now, doctor, I shall always be glad to have you remember me whenever you happen to be in my neighborhood.”
I looked at him suspiciously, but saw no murder in his eye; he was as oily and plausible as ever.
“You see,” he continued, “I have never had the honor of serving any of your patients before, and am very glad to have the opportunity of getting at least a small portion of your business.”
The fellow seemed to be getting a little personal, but I made no remark, and he went on with his little piece.
“I will see you again in a few days, doctor—as soon as I have been compensated for my labors in this particular case. You, of course, understand that I will extend to you in this case, as in all future cases, the same courtesies I usually extend to the medical profession.”
“Ah, indeed!” I exclaimed, “and of what do those courtesies consist?”
“Well,” he replied, blandly, “they are quite liberal, considering the hard times—about twenty-five per cent.”
“’Tis strange—but true; for truth is always strange.
Stranger than fiction.”
Among all the undertakers I ever knew my feelings have been seriously disturbed by but one.
The gentleman in question is fat, jolly—when off duty—and a bon vivant of the ideal type. He is a ubiquitous sort of chap, and I find myself stumbling over him quite frequently—in the most unexpected places and under the most embarrassing circumstances. No social gathering seems to be complete without him—much to my discomfiture.