The two men clambered up on the wagon and grabbed hold of one end of the box. Together they lifted it in the air. The box slid to the ground, on end, with a thud. The men took hold of the box and skidded it along the muddy ground to the pit. It was slid off to the top of the hole. There it stuck. "Gee, Bill, you didn't get that hole long enough," exclaimed the driver. "You guys up at the dead house didn't tell me she was a six footer," muttered the old man. "How'd you expect me to guess on these stiffs?" "Never mind, Bill, I'll fix it," said the driver. Then, suiting his words, he leaped high into the air and came down with a bound on one end of the box. The soft ground gave away after a few attempts and the big box sank with a sucking sound in the bottom of the hole. "Take care of her good, Bill," yelled back the driver, as he clambered back on the seat of his wagon. "She's a swell one. She came from the E---- club. She certainly was a peach. "Doc told me, when I was loading her on a while ago, that it was a dirty shame to waste such a good stiff. He said that if she hadn't been so far gone they'd have handed her over to the medical schools." Then, with a rumble, the wagon started off on its return journey. The old man gazed down for a moment on the box. On its top, inscribed with black paint, was the number "24331." At the side of the pile of dirt lay a little six inch board, which the driver had thrown from the wagon. It, too, bore the number "24331." The old man dug his spade into the wet dirt. Then he pitched a huge clod into the pit. It struck with a resounding bang on the lid of the box. In a few minutes the hole was filled. The old man stuck the numbered stick into the ground at the head of the mound. Stretching away in long rows on either side, hundreds of other similar numbered sticks jutted from unkempt mounds. The old digger shouldered his spade and started slowly to leave the scene. Then he stopped and slowly surveyed his work. "A swell one, huh," he half muttered to himself. "Well, so was lots of the rest of them that's out here now--once." Then, with a sigh, he started on his long trudge across the muddy meadow towards the buildings of the poorhouse. * * * * * It was the night of the same day. The myriad of incandescents in the "red light" district lighted that section of the city as though it were day. Drunken crowds of fashionably dressed men caroused about the streets, hurling vile names at persons they met. Down at the edge of the district a fight was waging. A large crowd had collected. A blue-coated policeman dashed towards the combatants, club in hand. There was a wild scramble in all directions. In the shadows of a big building a man was crouching. His cap was pulled low about his eyes to shield him from recognition.