One day my cousin called and Furber, on opening the door, before saying “How do you do?” or any word of greeting, said very quietly:
“The dog is dead.”
My cousin, having said what he thought sufficient, took up a violin and played a few notes. Furber evidently did not like it. Rose, the dog, was still unburied; she was laid out in that very room. My cousin stopped. Then Mrs. Furber came in.
R. E. W. “I am very sorry, Mrs. Furber, to hear about Rose.”
Mrs. F. “Well, yes sir. But I suppose it is all for the best.”
R. E. W. “I am afraid you will miss her a great deal.”
Mrs. F. “No doubt we shall, sir; but you see she is only gone a little while before us.”
R. E. W. “Oh, Mrs. Furber, I hope a good long while.”
Mrs. F. (brightening). “Well, yes sir, I don’t want to go just yet, though Mr. Furber does say it is a happy thing to die.”
My cousin says that Furber hardly knows any one by their real name. He identifies them by some nickname in connection with the fiddles they buy from him or get him to repair, or by some personal peculiarity.