“A pernicious example, spreading, I fear, even in the lowest classes,” his superior muttered. “Haste, lack of respect for the Dread Summons, carelessness in the Subsequent Disposition of the Corpse and——”
“But as regards people’s real feelings?” St. Peter demanded of the clerk.
“That isn’t within the terms of our reference, Sir,” was the answer. “But we do know that as often as not, they don’t even buy black-edged announcement-cards nowadays.”
“Good Heavens!” said Civil Death swellingly. “No cards! I must look into this myself. Forgive me, St. Peter, but we Servants of Humanity, as you know, are not our own masters. No cards, indeed!” He waved them off with an official hand, and immersed himself in the ledger.
“Oh, come along,” Death whispered to St. Peter. “This is a blessed relief!”
They two walked on till they reached the far end of the vast dim office. The clerks at the desks here scarcely pretended to work. A messenger entered and slapped down a small autophonic reel.
“Here you are!” he cried. “Mister Wilbraham Lattimer’s last dying speech and record. He made a shockin’ end of it.”
“Good for Lattimer!” a young voice called from a desk. “Chuck it over!”
“Yes,” the messenger went on. “Lattimer said to his brother: ‘Bert, I haven’t time to worry about a little thing like dying these days, and what’s more important, you haven’t either. You go back to your Somme doin’s, and I’ll put it through with Aunt Maria. It’ll amuse her and it won’t hinder you.’ That’s nice stuff for your boss!” The messenger whistled and departed. A clerk groaned as he snatched up the reel.
“How the deuce am I to knock this into official shape?” he began. “Pass us the edifying Gantry Tubnell. I’ll have to crib from him again, I suppose.”