dealt myself a hundred aces and a long suit of clubs, and he said
that that was better, but I must put off the idea of the funeral
altogether. It was not until I had assumed the appearance of a
reach-me-down Nut with a dislocated neck, being made love to by
six chorus-girls at once, that he condescended to take a look at
me through the peephole. Then he ran up to me, gave my chin another
hitch, pulled my neck another foot or two out of my collar, added a
ruck or two to my sleeves, and said he liked the other side of my face
better, after all.

So we went through it all again, and I worked at it with a will, for I
wanted to see him get under his black cloth and finish the business.

It wasn't as bad as I had thought, but he was not done by any means
when he had fired his first shot. He rammed more cartridges into the
breach, and twisted me into three fresh contortions. He said he was
sure that some of the efforts would turn out magnificently.

I don't feel quite the same confidence myself. I am anxiously
awaiting the result, and trying to get rid of the crick in my neck
and to unbuckle the smile in the meantime. If it doesn't turn out
satisfactorily, I shall get a few lines--not too deep--put into the
negative of the one taken under the crab-tree, and a little hair
painted out--but not too much.

* * * * *

[Illustration: "WORK! I'M NOT AFRAID O' WORK, BUT I CAN'T GET ANY IN
MY LINE."