There warn't no more popular man in town than what that
undertaker was.
Well, the funeral sermon was very good, but pison long and tiresome; and
then the king he shoved in and got off some of his usual rubbage, and at
last the job was through, and the undertaker begun to sneak up on the
coffin with his screw-driver. I was in a sweat then, and watched him
pretty keen. But he never meddled at all; just slid the lid along as soft
as mush, and screwed it down tight and fast. So there I was! I didn't
know whether the money was in there or not. So, says I, s'pose somebody
has hogged that bag on the sly?--now how do I know whether to write to
Mary Jane or not? S'pose she dug him up and didn't find nothing, what
would she think of me? Blame it, I says, I might get hunted up and
jailed; I'd better lay low and keep dark, and not write at all; the
thing's awful mixed now; trying to better it, I've worsened it a hundred
times, and I wish to goodness I'd just let it alone, dad fetch the whole
business!
They buried him, and we come back home, and I went to watching faces
again--I couldn't help it, and I couldn't rest easy. But nothing come
of it; the faces didn't tell me nothing.
The king he visited around in the evening, and sweetened everybody up,
and made himself ever so friendly; and he give out the idea that his
congregation over in England would be in a sweat about him, so he must
hurry and settle up the estate right away and leave for home.
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