The dead man deserved this honor because he was a reliable man, a man who kept his word even unto death. But they were obliged to get along with only the little bell because the big bell had been ruined in the thunder shower.
There were numberless mourners dressed in black. The black, draped catafalk was placed under the linden tree; here seats were brought out, the tapers lighted, the singer cleared his throat, and the mourners took their places.
Now nothing was lacking but the dead man. The master of ceremonies, clothed in full dignity, looked impatiently at his watch. “He must be here very soon.”
Carl Petroczig, who had arranged everything properly for the ceremony, hastened to quiet him.
“He must be here soon. The wagon has already been sent on to the station.” After a brief period of waiting, rattle of wheels was heard, the crowd began to sway to and fro, each one stretched up and tried to look over the one in front. While curiosity whispered, there were heard cries of astonishment and displeasure, and the members of the family began to separate.
“What is the matter? What has happened?” inquired the people, and stepped about lively upon each other’s corns, in their effort to reach the catafalk where the relatives were assembled.
Petroczig, as paralyzed as if he had been turned suddenly into a statue, gave the explanation, in a tone that resembled despair.
“My brother-in-law has not come; he has been delayed.”
It was really true; the dead man had delayed his own funeral. They sought him on the train, but he was nowhere to be found, although a telegram had come which said that he had been sent on it. There was nothing for it now but for the assembly of mourners to depart, and to beg the pardon of the others, that they had come in vain.
“How people do change when they are dead!” observed the reverend Pastor Mukuczek, angrily. “The blessed man was always so punctual, too, when he was alive.”