Rice was becoming fretted. He hadn't Jackeen's sustaining interest. Besides, he was thinking of that word from the Central Office, and how much safer he would be with Beansey, on the Hoboken side of the Hudson. Jackeen took a step nearer. The Doc smiled, eyes just showing through the dreamy lids. “Turn it loose!” cried Rice. The gun exploded five times, and five bullets ploughed their way into the Doc's body. Not a cry, not a movement! The bland, pleased smile never left the sallow face. With his mouth to the pipestem, the Doc dreamed on. In the street, Jackeen and Rice passed Lulu. As they brushed by her, Rice fell back a pace and whispered: “He croaked th' Doc.” Lulu gave a gulping cry and hurried on. “Is that you, Lulu?” asked the Doc, his drug-uplifted soul untouched, untroubled by what had passed, and what would come. Still, he must have dimly known; for his next words, softly spoken, were: “I'm sorry about Mike's teeth! Cook me a pill, dear; I want one last good smoke.” VII.--LEONI THE TROUBLE MAKER It was a perfect day for a funeral. The thin October air had in it a half-chill, like the cutting edge of the coming winter, still six weeks away. The leaves, crisp and brown from early frosts, seemed to rustle approval of the mournful completeness of things. Florists' shops had been ransacked, greenhouses laid waste, the leading carriages were moving jungles of blossoms. It was magnificent, and as the procession wound its slow way into Calvary, the heart of the undertaker swelled with pride. Not that he was justified; the glory was the glory of Paper-Box Johnny, who stood back of all this gloomy splendor with his purse. “Remember,” was Paper-Box's word to the undertaker, “I'm no piker, an' neither was Phil; so wade in wit' th' bridle off, an' make th' spiel same as if you was buryin' yourself.” Thus exhorted, and knowing the solvency of Paper-Box, the undertaker had no more than broken even with his responsibilities. Later, Paper-Box became smitten of concern because he hadn't thought to hire a brass band. A brass band, he argued, breathing Chopin's Funeral March, would have given the business a last artistic touch. “I'd ought to have me nut caved in for forget-tin' it,” he declared; “but Phil bein' croaked like he was, got me rattled. I'm all in th' air right now! Me head won't be on straight ag'in for a mont'.” In the face of Paper-Box's self-condemnation, ones expert in those sorrowful matters of crape and immortelles, averred that the funeral was a credit to Casey, and regrets were expressed that the bullet in that dead hero's brain forbade his sitting up in the hearse and enjoying what was being done in his honor.