Abruptly, he brightened, as though the invisible sun had winked impudently through the window well, as though a gate had opened on some blue sky over a green-grown cemetery. He hummed a solemn tune, hoping that one day he too would be a bright case in the annals. Privately, in point of ingenuity, that would cause the death department many a fine headache, and especially in originality, he would be near the top, he knew. In the meantime, to the accompaniment of its inevitable greeting, the little aperture had delivered more work. The day was wasting. He shook himself back to a saturnine countenance. Like all other days it was a fine day for dying. A fine time. What else was time for? End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Fine Day For Dying, by John Martin