the common herd of men with mercantile instincts; he is scrupulously
honest. He always gives full measure. This is very comforting to his
patrons--especially those who like a comfortable fit. There is not
a tailoring establishment in this blessed town that can show such a
record as my friend Blank, the undertaker. Why, he has been making
underclothing most all his life and never yet had a misfit turned back
on his hands.
I tell you what, my good friends, the undertaker is the last man in the
world with whom we have occasion to find fault.
I shall always entertain a high personal regard for some of the members
of the undertaking profession.
If there is any attribute of man especially to be admired, it is a keen
sense of humor. One of my undertaker friends--long since dead and gone
to a just reward--one Nathaniel Black, had this faculty developed to a
preternatural degree.
There was something very impressive in the skillful manner in which
Nathaniel used to conceal his humorous impulses while in the presence
of death. His air of subdued merriment was, it is true, painful
at times,--especially to himself--but this made it all the more
impressive, as showing how some spirits can, by exercising will power,
rise superior to their immediate surroundings.
When my friend Black was away from the actual presence of a corpse,
he would unbend and show the true inward cussedness of the born
humorist--with the evident self-sacrificing purpose of making life
pleasant for his many friends. I happened to be one of the fortunate
individuals who luxuriated in his friendship, and will cheerfully bear
testimony to his devotion to the occupation of increasing the happiness
of those about him. I feel that I could do no less, without stamping
myself an ingrate.
One of the first things I did on entering practice, many years ago, was
to invest in a typic doctor’s buggy. This was done in self-defense--my
face was as smooth as a pippin, my mustache was a caricature of the
real article and, taken all in all, there was nothing about me to
inspire confidence. There was consequently but one thing to do, and
that was to look and act as professional and prosperous as possible.
It was with this end in view that I bought a buggy which looked
unmistakably professional. As I had many friends and acquaintances, the
moral effect of my turn-out was excellent. Had I been able to live on
moral effect life would have been one vast smile of peaceful, well-fed
joy and contentment, but I could not dine on any sort of effect, least
of all upon the moral variety--which is a delusion and a snare.
Observing the marked attention that was paid to my equipage--and
incidentally to the prosperous young doctor--I was well pleased; there
were times when even my stomach was forgotten. It seemed to me that it
was better to ride on an empty stomach than to walk upon a full one,
provided I attracted sufficient attention to warrant my remaining in
practice--or the hope of practice.
On some occasions the people I met appeared especially delighted with
my appearance. Being self-satisfied with the notion that I was at last
beginning to be appreciated, I made no investigations to determine why
so much more attention should be paid to me on some occasions than upon
others. Such is the blinding power of self-conceit!
The advisability of hiring a colored driver suggested itself to me as
an additional bait for popular applause. The idea so impressed me that
I consulted one of my friends, Jack T---- about it. He advised me to
wait a while, and seemed much entertained by my story of increasing
popularity.
“Well, my boy,” said he, smilingly, “you are indeed getting on in the
world. Let me see--you lecture at a medical college, are surgeon to
a free dispensary, physician to the order of Sons of the Blue Hen,
physician to the hospital of the Big Sisters of the Rich, medical
examiner for the Knights of the Empty Cupboard, and have the swellest
turn-out in town. You certainly are to be congratulated.”
“Yes, Jack,” I said, “I feel that my career is full of promise. By
the way, old man, lend me a dollar, will you? This is my day for
dining--every third day, you know. I’ll pay you back next week.”
“Certainly, doctor, I am happy to contribute to the comfort of one
whose future is so brightly illumined by--promise. But, nevertheless,
I still maintain that it is too early in the action for you to think of
a colored coachman--every third day is--”
“Well, Jack,” I interrupted, “I must be going. Much obliged for your
contribution to the free silver question. And, by the way, I’m just on
my way to a meeting of the county commissioners. I’m slated for the
County Hospital Staff.”
“Oh--h--h!” groaned Jack. “Has your ambition for wealth no bounds?”
A day or two later I was driving at a “sent for” gait, down Michigan
Avenue, enjoying the evident admiring approbation of the people whom I
met, when I saw my friend Jack a short distance ahead of me. He caught
sight of me, stopped short and walked out to the curb, where he awaited
me with a decidedly pleased expression on his handsome face.
“Hello, doctor!” he cried, as I drove up to him and reined in my horse.
“You seem to have a bad case on hand.”
I winked and said, “Never mind the case. Come along with me for a ride.
You have nothing else to do at this hour of the day.”
“Don’t care if I do,” replied my friend, stepping into my buggy
forthwith.
My rig continued to attract considerable attention, much to Jack’s
edification, apparently. He finally said, “Well, doctor, your turn-out
does excite the interest of the public, doesn’t it?”
“So I have already informed you,” I replied.
“Now, see here, doctor,” said Jack, “you know that I am your friend. As
a friend it is my duty to prevent you from acquiring that fatal pride
which ever precedes a fall. I have hesitated to explain your popularity
to you, but for your own sake and to preserve my own health, I must do
so.”
“Why, what the deuce do you mean?” I asked, in astonishment.
“Look behind you, doctor.”
I looked through the rear window of my phæton, and saw, about fifty
yards behind me, a long, black, undertaker’s wagon. On the seat,
driving the sorry-looking steeds that were drawing the horribly
suggestive vehicle, was--my friend, Nathaniel Black!
My undertaking friend was by no means quietly pursuing his gloomy way,
but was gesticulating and winking suggestively to the people on the
side walk. He would first flirt his knobby thumb in my direction with
a “D’ye see him?” gesture, and then, with a “That’s what I’m here for”
wink at everybody in sight, would grin all over his ugly face.
“A horrible coincidence!” I said faintly.
“Coincidence nothing!” howled Jack. “He’s been doing that ever since
you got your new buggy!”
And I bought wine for Nathaniel, and for Jack, and for sundry of their
friends--yea, and for all who were within the sound of their voices in
their daily walks.
But, I borrowed the wherewithal to settle from Jack. And, by and by,
when practice came, I gave my patronage to Nathaniel’s rivals.
Was the joke on me?
I wonder.
* * * * *
There are some doctors who do not understand the precise relation that
the noble profession of undertaking desires to bear to the medical man.
I freely confess that I myself was ignorant on this point until quite
recently.
In a certain neighborhood of this metropolis dwells an undertaker of
more than local renown whose reputation has been built up largely by
virtue of certain natural attributes that peculiarly fit him for the
practice of his profession;--indeed, I have never met a man more to
the manner born as regards fitness for his--shall I say, life work, or
would “death work” be more appropriate?
Mr. Weeps is one of those mournful-looking persons, who seem to
be constantly on the verge of tears. His expression is of a most
sympathetic nature, and his eyes seem ever ready to exude the saline
fluid that is so essential to the expression of sincere sorrow and
regret. It might be remarked in passing, that there are numerous
theories explanatory of the redness and humidity of those bleary orbs.
Personally, I repudiate the onion theory altogether, and incline to
the view that Mr. Weeps’ ocular peculiarities are dependent upon a
combination of catarrh and polypi obstructing the nasal ducts. The
“red eye” theory, advanced by one of his homeopathic constituents, is
unworthy of consideration--especially as my lugubrious friend has been
superintendent of a Sunday school for ten years and has served two
terms as alderman.
But, whatever, may be the true explanation, Weeps’ eyes appear to
have been especially designed for his vocation. There is no other
business--unless it be selling milk--to which those watery orbs could
possibly be so well adapted as to undertaking.
I cannot claim to be on terms of intimacy with Mr. Weeps, and therefore
do not feel warranted in attempting a detailed description of his many
physical peculiarities--it would, however, be manifestly unfair to that
most estimable gentleman, did I not dwell upon his eyes.
In the course of my semi-occasional peregrinations into Mr. Weeps’
neighborhood, it transpired that one of my patients, with malice both
prepense and aforethought--and consumption--did leave his little lung
behind and hie him heavenward.
My kindly and well meant offices being no longer necessary, I naturally
supposed that my responsibility had ceased. Not so, however--I was
asked to recommend an undertaker. Having heard of Mr. Weeps and his
phenomenal skill, I suggested that the family consult him as to the
further management of the case. It seems that the family took my advice
and was highly gratified with the pleasant and expeditious manner in
which he performed his important functions. Indeed, the friends of the
party chiefly interested were so well pleased, that they thanked me a
few days later, for recommending a gentleman of so much talent and such
a sympathetic nature. I, of course, appreciated the family’s gratitude,
although the service rendered was quite unusual in my experience. Some
unfeeling persons might say that the large life insurance policies left
by the deceased were an element in the gratitude the family expressed
to me, but, my dear reader, the very thought would be cruel and
ignoble. Without confidence in human nature life would be miserable for
all of us--and especially for doctors.
A few days after the funeral I received a call from Mr. Weeps. There
seemed to be no end to the gratitude which was believed to be due me.
Weeps had called to express his. He appeared to be as well pleased with
the family as its members were with him.
I had never had the honor of meeting Mr. Weeps before, but his suave
and cordial manner of introducing himself put me at my ease at once.
The pleasure of acquaintance was of course mutual; it always is, you
know.
After thanking me most cordially for my courtesy in referring the case
of the late Mr. B---- to him, Mr. Weeps said:
“Now, doctor, I shall always be glad to have you remember me whenever
you happen to be in my neighborhood.”
I looked at him suspiciously, but saw no murder in his eye; he was as
oily and plausible as ever.
“You see,” he continued, “I have never had the honor of serving any
of your patients before, and am very glad to have the opportunity of
getting at least a small portion of your business.”
The fellow seemed to be getting a little personal, but I made no
remark, and he went on with his little piece.
“I will see you again in a few days, doctor--as soon as I have been
compensated for my labors in this particular case. You, of course,
understand that I will extend to you in this case, as in all future
cases, the same courtesies I usually extend to the medical profession.”
“Ah, indeed!” I exclaimed, “and of what do those courtesies consist?”
“Well,” he replied, blandly, “they are quite liberal, considering the
hard times--_about twenty-five per cent._”
“’Tis strange--but true; for truth is always strange.
Stranger than fiction.”
Among all the undertakers I ever knew my feelings have been seriously
disturbed by but one.
The gentleman in question is fat, jolly--when off duty--and a _bon
vivant_ of the ideal type. He is a ubiquitous sort of chap, and I find
myself stumbling over him quite frequently--in the most unexpected
places and under the most embarrassing circumstances. No social
gathering seems to be complete without him--much to my discomfiture.
Words cannot express the embarrassment I have suffered at the hands of
my fat friend. The worst of the matter is that the fellow really likes
me--you needn’t smile, gentle reader; his fondness does not depend
upon reasons of a business nature; he likes me for myself alone. It
will be seen, therefore, that I cannot afford to say anything which
might by any possibility offend him. Aside from his affection for me,
there is another motive which impels me to avoid personalities--he is
high-strung and sensitive to a degree, and, if report speaks true, an
expert boxer. To be sure, those whom he has boxed have said nothing
about his proficiency, but where one’s own personal safety is concerned
one is justified in giving due weight even to idle rumor.
Now, it may seem strange that I should find fault with a man who has so
sincere a regard for me as my fat friend, but, you know, even affection
may be over done. When a fellow dresses up on Sunday preparatory to
calling on his best girl, and his pet dog lavishes caresses with his
muddy paws on those eleven dollar lavender trousers, patience ceases to
be a virtue--and the comparison is by no means far-fetched.
Whenever I board a crowded street car, that obese mortuary fiend is
always aboard--and at the end of the car farthest from me. He never
fails to see and recognize me, although I go through as many motions as
a professional contortionist in the vain and frantic effort to avoid
recognition.
And then you should hear him yell, “Hello, Doc! How are all the folks?”
I assure him that I am greatly obliged for his rather suggestive
solicitude for the welfare of my family, and that the folks are all
well.
He next asks me how business is, and when I answer, “First rate,” with
a tone of sorrowing reproof he informs me that it is “very quiet with
_him_.” As if his business is not supposed to be invariably quiet!
The party sitting next me leaves the car; the undertaker pushes through
the crowd and with a “How d’ye do, old man?” and an ostentatious
pump-handle shake of my hand that almost costs me several fingers,
takes the vacant seat beside me.
And now comes a conversation--his part of which is audible to everybody
on the car--relative to the “last case we had together.” The brute even
mentions the party’s name, which, if it happens to be a well known one,
excites the rapt attention of everybody within earshot.
He next proceeds to ask me to dine with him “to-morrow” and comments on
the “elegant time we had together last week.”
Finally arriving at his destination, my demon bids me an affectionate
good night and starts for the farther door of the car. I breathe a sigh
of relief--but too soon. Having reached the platform he re-opens the
door and bellows out--
“By the way, Doc! do you think old man Blank is going to pull through?
Old friend of mine, you know--I’ll probably be in on the case when the
thing’s over.”
* * * * *
I went to the opera the other night hoping--aye, determined to enjoy
myself, and feeling that I was entitled to a little enjoyment, for
I had had very little opera in my daily routine for some months. My
wife was looking very well, and my mirror gave positive proof that my
new dress suit was an unexceptionable fit. All things considered I had
every reason to feel well satisfied with myself and the world at large.
But how vain are human hopes. We were hardly comfortably seated, before
I saw in the box directly opposite mine--the fat undertaker who haunted
my dreams!
I endeavored to avoid recognition, but it was no use. He saw me, and
gesticulated so wildly to attract my attention that I was perforce
obliged to respond in self-defense. The house being crowded, this
little episode attracted much attention--especially on the part of
numerous friends of the undertaker and myself, who, as luck would have
it, happened to be present. These people smiled broadly; some even went
so far as to wink significantly at each other.
The fat undertaker is one of those men who succeed in attracting
attention at all times and under all circumstances. On this occasion
he shone with effulgent brilliancy. He enjoyed the play--there was
no doubt about that--and proposed to make me enjoy it also. Whenever
the performance especially pleased him, he applauded vociferously,
quivering all over like a lump of calf’s-foot jelly and gesticulating
furiously in my direction. Having succeeded in attracting my attention,
he would jerk his fat thumb in the direction of the artist who was
favored with his approbation and nod emphatically at me.
The audience enjoyed my friend’s enthusiasm and seemed quite anxious to
know how _I_ was enjoying it. I couldn’t enlighten it as intelligently
as could have been wished, so I did the next best thing--I went out
between acts to see a man--and found him so highly interesting that
I forgot to go back. Suddenly remembering that my wife was still in
the box, I sent an usher to inform her that I wasn’t feeling well and
was waiting for her at the door. Being a wise woman, she divined the
cause of my indisposition and soon joined me. She didn’t feel quite
comfortable herself, and was glad to escape from--the opera.
I have forsworn society. I have bought an automobile, and if ever I go
to the theater again--may the fat undertaker seize me!
A GRIM MEMENTO
My friend, Dr. Fairweather, was engaged when I called, but it so
happened that I was in no hurry and could conveniently wait. I have
since been glad that things happened as they did; had I not been
compelled to wait and amuse myself as best I could, I probably should
not have heard what to me was a most interesting story. The colored
attendant who took my card and announced me to the doctor, returned and
said:
“De doctah is right busy just now, suh. He says fo’ you alls to be sho
to wait, cayse he wants to see you mos’ pow’ful. I reckon you alls
better wait in dis yeh room, suh. De doctah says dat you must mek
yo’sef to home.”
The servant ushered me into a small apartment, evidently the doctor’s
“den,” and handed me the morning paper, which I proceeded to hungrily
devour. The paper was the first I had seen in a month--I was just
returning from my summer outing trip, and had stopped off _en route_
at P. to see my old friend Fairweather.
The doctor was detained for some time, and having finished reading
my paper, I proceeded to inspect the curios with which the room was
garnished. I had examined with great interest the fine collection of
odd Indian relics and the queer weapons from the four quarters of the
earth, and was returning to my seat by the window when a grinning human
skull upon the mantel caught my eye.
It so happens that the human skull is of especial interest to me
because of a certain hobby that I enjoy riding at odd moments. I am
something of an enthusiast in the subjects of criminology and the
relation of the contour and development of the skull to mental and
moral qualities. It was with some curiosity therefore, that I picked
up the skull and proceeded to critically examine it. I found it well
worthy of study and regretted that I could give it only cursory
attention.
The dwarfed frontal development; the great length of the face; the
enormously large, protruding jaw; the huge orbits, with the great
projecting bony prominences--the frontal bosses--above them; the
general lightness of the bones; the unsymmetrical conformation of the
face and the twisted and undeveloped dome of the skull presented a
picture that is very familiar to the student of criminal anthropology.
So absorbed was I in the contemplation of the gruesome relic I held in
my hands, that I was not conscious of the entrance of Dr. Fairweather
until he spoke.
“Hello, old man!--riding your hobby as usual, I see. No time for your
friends, I suppose.”
I grasped the doctor’s welcoming hand and replied, “Well, as you
were busy, I had to kill time as best I might with this gentleman.
He is a poor conversationist, hence I was compelled to utilize him
in any way that I could. I must admit that I have found him very
interesting--inversely to his loquacity, in fact.”
“Ah, indeed; and what do you make of him?”
“Looking for a chance to guy me, eh?” I replied. “Really, old fellow,
time does not mellow you a bit. Well, guy away. I am not prepared to
give you a critical dissertation on this particular skull. This much
I will say, however--it has more of the ear marks of the degenerate
than any I have seen for some time. The party who originally owned
the skull should have been a desperado, or a hold-up man, although
he may have passed the hat in church for aught I know--which may be a
distinction without a difference.”
Dr. Fairweather laughed heartily. “Well, I don’t know but that I ought
to resent your criticisms of the skull. I can forgive your slam at the
church, but it is my duty to inform you that the gentleman of whom that
skull is a relic was a very particular friend of mine.”
“Oh, then you are keeping the skull as a memento of your friend.
There’s no accounting for tastes, you know,” I said, watching the
doctor suspiciously out of the corner of my eye and recalling that he
had as strong a predilection for practical jokes as I had for skulls.
“Yes, that is precisely it,” replied the doctor seriously. “I have two
mementos of my dead friend; one--post mortem--you hold in your hand;
the other--ante mortem--is here,” and he threw back from his forehead
the long, wavy, dark hair in which threads of silver were beginning to
show and pointed to a long, livid, jagged scar that traversed his left
temple.
I looked at the doctor in surprise. Although I had known him for many
years, I had never noticed his disfigurement.
“I don’t think I ever told you the story, did I?” continued the doctor.
I replied in the negative, assuring my friend that nothing could please
me better than to hear him tell it.
“Well, I’m through with patients for to-day, and if you will do me the
honor of dining with me at the club, I shall be most happy to relate it
to you.”
* * * * *
“You will remember that I was formerly engaged in general practice in
the little town of R---- in Northern Minnesota. My field was an arduous
one and I could not select my patients--on the contrary, I was mighty
glad when they condescended to select me. It’s quite different now;
I can be ‘in’ or ‘out,’ as I may elect, when patients ring my bell.
Better than all, I can ask an old friend to dine with me at the club.
There _is_ a club, thank heaven, and there is also the wherewithal
nowadays.”
“I was fortunate enough, early in my practice, to receive an
appointment as the local surgeon of the St. Paul road for our little
town.
“The position was a sinecure in a way, but I captured an occasional
accident case that paid something, and the position of surgeon to the
railroad gave me a certain amount of prestige among the country folk
around. Then too, I had an annual pass over the road, and that helped
some. It would have helped more if I had had time to ride and money
for meals on the dining cars. Small though my railroad practice was,
however, I had occasion to thank the Lord that I was a railroad surgeon
and that one of my patients had a good memory, before I was done with
the job.
“The winter of ’80 and ’81 was a hard one, and practice was not a
simple, lightsome game. It seemed to me that when I had important work
to do, my patient was always a long way off in some out of the way farm
house, or at a crossing station where the trains ran every other week.
“The day before Christmas I received a call to attend a gunshot injury,
about fifty miles from my home. The weather was abominable, being
cold and stormy enough to make the hungriest and most ambitious young
surgeon hesitate to face it. They get the blizzards from that devilish
Medicine Hat at first hand up there, you, know--the raw stuff in the
way of weather. But needs must when patients called, and as there was
nothing to do but face the music I took the first and only available
train for X----.