"You'll see. We have to have sixty or seventy feet of rope too."
"Is anybody going to be hanged?" asked Hickey with a shiver.
"No. That's to stretch across the road."
Replete and glowing inside, they lighted big cigars and returned to the flivver. Having filled up with gas and oil and bought the rope, they left town by the route indicated. The journey to Silver Pond was without incident. Having plenty of time they let the old flivver roll at her natural gait along the suburban highways. Silver Pond marked the limit of the suburbs in this direction; beyond was the open country.
They reached the station at twenty minutes to nine. The agent's office was closed, but there were several little stores opposite including a bar. Here Greg applied for information.
"What time does the train get here that brings the—er—bodies to the crematory?" he asked, looking as much like a bereaved relative as he could.
"Nine-three," was the reply. "Expectin' somebody?"—this with a sympathetic air.
Greg nodded lugubriously, and the bar-tender shook his head in sympathetic unison. "What'll you have?" he asked, suggesting that therein lay the cure for all woes.
"Rye high-ball," said Greg. "Do they send the bodies right out to the crematory to-night?"
"Sure. When they're notified there's anybody coming the motor-truck meets the train. He'll be along any minute now."