INJURED PARTIES (_simultaneously_). "OH! TO BE SMACKED BY THOSE WE LOVE DOTH WORK LIKE MADNESS IN THE BRAIN."] * * * * * [Illustration: FRENZIED BOXING FINANCE. _Master of the Ceremonies._ "LOOK 'ERE! 'FORE MY MAN FIGHTS HE WANTS TWO POTTIES, THREE GLASSIES AN' A BLOOD-ALLEY; AN' I WANTS A PACKET O' FAGS FOR MESELF."] * * * * * THE BURIAL OF DUNDEE. "Dundee is dead," said my wife, returning from her morning visit to the kitchen. "I am very sorry to hear it," I replied, laying down the newspaper on the breakfast-table, at which I still lingered; and indeed I was sorry. Dundee had been our household cat from the earliest days of our married life, from the time when he was a tiny kitten the colour of marmalade, which had earned him his name. "Cook is very much upset," my wife continued. "Her distress does her credit," I answered. "She talks of leaving." I must confess with shame that a pang acuter than the first went through me at the news, for Cook was one of those rare artists who understands the value of surprise and never rides success to death. "Ask her to reconsider her decision," I said. "I have," said my wife, "and she remained immovable." "Perhaps when the first shock has worn off?" "There is just a chance." "Yes, I am sure you can persuade her," I concluded, preparing to leave for my office. "Before you go," interrupted my wife, "what are we going to do about the burial?" "How does one usually dispose of dead cats?" I asked. "I thought the dustman--" "Out of the question." "I know it is forbidden by the by-laws of the Corporation, but a shilling ----" "How stupid you are! If anything were to decide Cook to go it would be handing over Dundee's remains to the dustman. You know how particular Cook is about funerals." I knew indeed. The rate of mortality among her friends and relations was abnormally high, and on account, as I suspect, of her skill in cookery she was in frequent demand as a mourner. By continual attendance she had cultivated a nice sense of what was fitting on these occasions and posed as an authority on the subject. "Very well, then, let's have him buried," I said. "Where?" "In our garden." "Who by?" "Palmer or Emily." Palmer and Emily are respectively the parlour- and house-maid. "Both would say it was not the work for which they were engaged. They would leave at the same time as Cook, if I asked them." "Who else can we get?" I asked. "Yourself," my wife made answer. "Me? But I can't be seen by all the street burying a cat." I should explain that our only garden is in front of the house. "If you wait till it is dark you needn't be afraid of anyone seeing you," protested my wife. "And run the risk of being detected by some suspicious policeman. No, thank you." "Then if you won't do it yourself you must find someone who will. It is our last hope of persuading Cook to stay."