What if his own heirs should neglect to mark his own grave?
“I'll hurry home at once, and put the money for it in a stocking foot,” thought Tommy, and his knees bent more than usually as he accelerated his pace.
But as he tied a knot in the stocking, came the fear that even this money might be misapplied; even his will might be ignored, through repeated postponement and the law's indifference.
Who, save old Billy Skidmore, would care whether old Tommy McGuffy's last resting-place were designated or not? Once let the worms begin operations upon this antique morsel, what would it matter to Rearward folks where the banquet was taking place?
Tommy now underwent a second attack of horror, from which he came victorious, a gleeful smile momentarily lifting the dimness from his excessively lachrymal eyes.
“I'll fix 'em,” he said to himself. “I'll go to-day to Ricketts, the marble-cutter, and order my own tombstone.”
Three months thereafter, Ricketts, the marble-cutter, untied the knot in the stocking that had been Billy's and deposited the contents in the local savings-bank.
In the cemetery stood a monument very lofty and elaborate. Around it was an iron fence. Within the enclosure there was no grave as yet.
“Here,” said the monument, in deep-cut-letters, but bad English, “lies all that remains of Thomas McGuffy, born in Rearward, November 11, 1820; died——. Gone whither the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.”
This supplementary information was framed in the words of Tommy's favourite passage in his favourite hymn. His liking for this was mainly on account of its tune.