“Oh, Sid, don’t tell me that your daddy air daid,” cried Col. LaFayette, throwing up his hands at the unexpected and shocking announcement. “How kin it be?” “It shore is the truth, and I want you fellers to help me give him a decent burial.” “Well, Sid, there ain’t nothin’ that I wouldn’t do for Uncle Billy Malone, daid or alive, and as quick as I go up town and tend to a little bizness I’ll be wid you.” Col. LaFayette had his mind fatally fixed on The Merry Bowl, and he felt compelled to have a drink before he could do anything else, but, be it said to his credit, that although his tongue was dry and his head set on the saloon, his heart--a large, warm one--was with his dead comrade. He was loyal and true to his friends, and Uncle Billy stood at the head of the list. He went to The Merry Bowl--he and all of his associates except Sid, who went to the church to have a grave prepared--took a round or two of drinks and bought several bottles to carry away with them. Having thus fortified against the cold and the dreary hours ahead the six companions of the Malones repaired to the little home on the outskirts of the town, and began the watch over Uncle Billy’s remains. Sid Malone and his father lived in a two-roomed log house, which had been built two generations before. They had been the sole occupants since the death of Mrs. Malone, mother and wife, twenty years prior to that time. It was a wretched, poverty-stricken place, unkept and dilapidated. Here, on the day of the funeral, the friends of the late lord and master of the hut sat in silence, doing what they deemed to be the right thing toward their departed comrade. The six, with solemn faces, sat looking in the fire that crackled away on the hearth. Deep down they were sorrow-stricken but, withal, the thirst that never dies tugged at them. At first, when one felt that it was impossible to do without a drink any longer, he would rise and steal quietly out, step aside, and touch his flask. This was out of respect to the memory of Uncle Billy. However, this formality did not continue long for, inside of two hours, the boys were drinking in the good old way, and in the presence of the corpse. Sid returned about noon, broken and dejected, and was prevailed upon to take a cup or two for his nerves. “It’s mighty hard, fellers,” said Col. LaFayette, “but we can not undo what has been done. The Father of All intended that we should go just like Uncle Billy went. I hope that my takin’ off will be as sudden and as unlooked-for as his. I have my thoughts about the hereafter, but I hope to be with my friends. Let us drink one glass in honor of our old friend who has gone on before!” The frequent drinks of whiskey had lifted the sorrow from the hearts of the little band of associates.