Jeremy was immensely pleased with her. He came soon to the subject of the blast rite, and arranged it in his deprecating way, holding his barber’s brown hand against his side and calling her Jarlsen’s love names, but in a safe, motherly voice that made Emma sure she need not fear the women even if they saw her with him. “Now, Emma, you can’t get a regular preacher to pray over anything but a sure and cold corpse, so we’ll get Quarry to say the sermon, alludin’ to past virtues and the future crown. It’ll make things right with Quarry, who ain’t the Tracks’ darling just exactly, and I’ll take the prayers myself. Then the Polacks will fiddle and I’ll sing ‘The land beyond the sky’ and ‘Peace comes after pain’--that’s a nice song, perfectly novel, with three acts and a chorus. I won’t let on it has a chorus, for them Polacks is so insaturated with alcohol they might get things noisy.” “But do speak good and loud,” said Emma, “for August might hear something to please him.” “That’s right,” said Jerry, “don’t you lose your grit. You kin never tell how far a man will get beyond the blast with good nursing.” Every one knew that Jarlsen was stone-deaf since the blast, and Emma spoke of his hearing the--in one sense--post-mortem eulogies from a desire to combat the idea. Perhaps Jeremy feared she might appeal to him for encouragement on this point, for he hurried on to the next. “Since the beloved lips is silent, I expect I’m the first singer in the city. He had a way of doing gargles on the upper notes that would beat a seraph singing. But I’m goin’ to organize as notional a rite as I can, bringing forty years of experience, man and boy, to bear on this one sad occasion. It’ll be the blasted best blast rite ever you saw. It’s queer they can’t cover them blasts or get the men off in time, or so’s they won’t touch the torch to it before the word’s given! I’ve had some corpses in two years from blasts, and all jest es ragged and singed es could be, let alone the blasts that’s lying deaf and blind round the city yet!” The day of the mock-death service dawned clear and bright, which was held to be bad by the weather-weird-wise, as the Scotch among them said. Quarry had rum in his tea as early as 6 A. M. He was always up early on rum days, but he beat his own precedent this morning. He insisted upon setting the house in readiness. He had formed a habit of talking to himself since he had grown fearful of committing himself with talking to the other men, for Quarry had many things to hide, and knew his limitations as regarded discretion. His main thought was that he would rather spend money on what was only an approach to Jarlsen’s corpse than hoard it. Besides that, he had the cosy consciousness that it had looked friendly when he and Emma had issued together from her room on the night when Jarlsen came singed to his wedding dance.