When he left the cemetery in such time as to avoid a delay of his evening meal and a consequent outburst of anger on the part of his old housekeeper, he had taken a resolution.
“Threescore years and ten, says the Bible,” he muttered to himself as he walked homeward. “The scriptural lifetime'll do for me.”
A week thereafter old Tommy gazed proudly upon the finished inscription.
“Died November 11, 1890,” was the newest bit of biography there engraved.
“But it's two years and more till November 11, 1890,” said a voice at his side.
Tommy merely cast an indifferent look upon the speaker and walked off without a word.
The whole village now thought that Tommy had become a monomaniac upon the subject of his tombstone. Perhaps he had. No one has been able to learn from his friend, Billy Skidmore, what thoughts he may have communicated to the latter upon the matter.
Tommy now lived for no other apparent purpose than to visit his tombstone daily. He no longer confined his walks thither to the pleasant days. He went in weather most perilous to so old and frail a man.
One of his prospective heirs took sufficient interest in him to advise more care of his health.
“I can easily keep alive till the time comes,” returned the antique; “there's only a year left.”