“Well-a-well, we’ve all got to go, they ain’t no getting around it. Man that is born of woman is of few days and far between, as Scriptur’ says. Yes, you look at it any way you want to, it’s awful solemn and cur’us: they ain’t _nobody_ can get around it; _all’s_ got to go—just _everybody_, as you may say. One day you’re hearty and strong”—here he scrambled to his feet and broke a pane and stretched his nose out at it a moment or two, then sat down again while I struggled up and thrust my nose out at the same place, and this we kept on doing every now and then—“and next day he’s cut down like the grass, and the places which knowed him then knows him no more forever, as Scriptur’ says. Yes’ndeedy, it’s awful solemn and cur’us; but we’ve all got to go, one time or another; they ain’t no getting around it.” There was another long pause; then,— “What did he die of?” I said I didn’t know. “How long has he ben dead?” It seemed judicious to enlarge the facts to fit the probabilities; so I said,— “Two or three days.” But it did no good; for Thompson received it with an injured look which plainly said, “Two or three _years_, you mean.” Then he went right along, placidly ignoring my statement, and gave his views at considerable length upon the unwisdom of putting off burials too long. Then he lounged off toward the box, stood a moment, then came back on a sharp trot and visited the broken pane, observing,— “’Twould ’a’ ben a dum sight better, all around, if they’d started him along last summer.” Thompson sat down and buried his face in his red silk handkerchief, and began to slowly sway and rock his body like one who is doing his best to endure the almost unendurable. By this time the fragrance—if you may call it fragrance—was just about suffocating, as near as you can come at it. Thompson’s face was turning gray; I knew mine hadn’t any color left in it. By and by Thompson rested his forehead in his left hand, with his elbow on his knee, and sort of waved his red handkerchief towards the box with his other hand, and said,— “I’ve carried a many a one of ’em,—some of ’em considerable overdue, too,—but, lordy, he just lays over ’em all!—and does it _easy_. Cap., they was heliotrope to _him_!” This recognition of my poor friend gratified me, in spite of the sad circumstances, because it had so much the sound of a compliment. Pretty soon it was plain that something had got to be done. I suggested cigars. Thompson thought it was a good idea. He said,— “Likely it’ll modify him some.” We puffed gingerly along for a while, and tried hard to imagine that things were improved. But it wasn’t any use. Before very long, and without any consultation, both cigars were quietly dropped from our nerveless fingers at the same moment. Thompson said, with a sigh,— “No, Cap., it don’t modify him worth a cent. Fact is, it makes him worse, becuz it appears to stir up his ambition. What do you reckon we better do, now?”