In undertaking there were many miles to trudge with coffins in a week,
and the fixed, sad, sympathetic look long custom had stereotyped was
wearisome to the face as a cast of plaster-of-paris. Moreover, the
undertaker was master of ceremonies at the house of bereavement as well.
He not only arranged the funeral, he sent out the invitations to the
"friends of deceased, who are requested to return to the house of the
mourners after the obsequies for refreshment." All the preparations for
this feast were made by the undertaker--Master of Burials he chose to be
called.

Once, after a busy six months, in which a fever had carried off many a
Jersiais, the Master of Burials had given a picnic to his apprentices,
workmen, and their families. At this buoyant function he had raised his
glass and with playful plaintiveness proposed: "The day we celebrate!"

He was in a no less blithesome mood this day. The head apprentice was
reading aloud the accounts for the burials of the month, while the master
checked off the items, nodding approval, commenting, correcting or
condemning with strange expletives.

"Don't gabble, gabble next one slowlee!" said the Master of Burials, as
the second account was laid aside, duly approved. "Eh ben, now let's
hear the next--who is it?"

"That Josue Anquetil," answered the apprentice. The Master of Burials
rubbed his hands together with a creepy sort of glee. "Ah, that was a
clever piece of work! Too little of a length and a width for the box,
but let us be thankful--it might have been too short, and it wasn't."

"No danger of that, pardingue!" broke in the apprentice. "The first it