He had left the date of his death to be inserted by the marble cutter after its occurrence.
Rearward folks were amused at sight of the monument, and they ascribed the placing of it there to the eccentricity of a taciturn old man.
Tommy seemed to derive much pleasure from visiting his tombstone on mild days. He spent many hours contemplating it. He would enter the iron enclosure, lock the gate after him, and sit upon the ground that was intended some day to cover his body.
He was a familiar sight to people riding or walking past the graveyard,—this thin old man leaning upon his cane, contentedly pondering over the inscription on his own tombstone.
He undoubtedly found much innocent pleasure in it.
One afternoon, as he was so engaged, he was assailed by a new apprehension.
Suppose that Ricketts, the marble-cutter, should fail to inscribe the date of his death in the space left vacant for it!
There was almost no likelihood of such an omission, but there was at least a possibility of it.
He glanced across the cemetery to Jerry Hurley's unmarked mound, and shuddered.
Then he thought laboriously.