“Sure. Got any more? I’d spend a hundred to do this right.”
With a smile of astounded gratification, Bartholomew accepted the roll of bills, fresh and crisp as the visitor himself. To do him justice, I believe that his pleasure was due as much to the recognition of his genius as to the stipend it had earned.
“Perhaps you’d like a special elegy to be read at the grave,” he rumbled eagerly. “When and where did the interment take place?”
The other glared at him in stony surprise. “It ain’t taken place. It’s to-morrow. Ain’t you on? I’m Hines.”
A frown darkened the sexton’s heavy features. He shook a reprehensive head. “An unfortunate case,” he boomed; “most unfortunate. I will not conceal from you, Mr. Hines, that I have consulted our attorneys upon this case, and unhappily—unhappily, I say—they hold that there is no basis for exclusion provided the certificate is in form. You have it with you?”
Impassive and inscrutable, Mr. Hines tapped his breast-pocket.
The conscience of a responsible sexton being assuaged, Bartholomew’s expression mollified into that of the flattered poet.
“Such being the case,” he pursued, “there can be no objection to the reading of an elegy as part of the service. Who is to officiate?”
“The Reverend Doctor Hackett.”
“He has retired these two years,” said the sexton doubtfully. “He is very old. His mind sometimes wanders.”