In a physician's office in Kearny Street three men sat about a table,
drinking punch and smoking. It was late in the evening, almost midnight,
indeed, and there had been no lack of punch. The gravest of the three,
Dr. Helberson, was the host--it was in his rooms they sat. He was about
thirty years of age; the others were even younger; all were physicians.
"The superstitious awe with which the living regard the dead," said Dr.
Helberson, "is hereditary and incurable. One needs no more be ashamed of
it than of the fact that he inherits, for example, an incapacity for
mathematics, or a tendency to lie."
The others laughed. "Oughtn't a man to be ashamed to lie?" asked the
youngest of the three, who was in fact a medical student not yet
graduated.
"My dear Harper, I said nothing about that. The tendency to lie is one
thing; lying is another."
"But do you think," said the third man, "that this superstitious
feeling, this fear of the dead, reasonless as we know it to be, is
universal? I am myself not conscious of it."
"Oh, but it is 'in your system' for all that," replied Helberson; "it
needs only the right conditions--what Shakespeare calls the 'confederate
season'--to manifest itself in some very disagreeable way that will open
your eyes. Physicians and soldiers are of course more nearly free from
it than others."
"Physicians and soldiers!--why don't you add hangmen and headsmen? Let
us have in all the assassin classes."
"No, my dear Mancher; the juries will not let the public executioners
acquire sufficient familiarity with death to be altogether unmoved by
it."
Young Harper, who had been helping himself to a fresh cigar at the
sideboard, resumed his seat. "What would you consider conditions under
which any man of woman born would become insupportably conscious of his
share of our common weakness in this regard?" he asked, rather
verbosely.
"Well, I should say that if a man were locked up all night with a
corpse--alone--in a dark room--of a vacant house--with no bed covers to
pull over his head--and lived through it without going altogether mad,
he might justly boast himself not of woman born, nor yet, like Macduff,
a product of Cæsarean section."
"I thought you never would finish piling up conditions," said Harper,
"but I know a man who is neither a physician nor a soldier who will
accept them all, for any stake you like to name."
"Who is he?"
"His name is Jarette--a stranger here; comes from my town in New York. I
have no money to back him, but he will back himself with loads of it."
"How do you know that?"
"He would rather bet than eat. As for fear--I dare say he thinks it some
cutaneous disorder, or possibly a particular kind of religious heresy."
"What does he look like?" Helberson was evidently becoming interested.
"Like Mancher, here--might be his twin brother."
"I accept the challenge," said Helberson, promptly.
"Awfully obliged to you for the compliment, I'm sure," drawled Mancher,
who was growing sleepy. "Can't I get into this?"
"Not against me," Helberson said. "I don't want _your_ money."
"All right," said Mancher; "I'll be the corpse."
The others laughed.
The outcome of this crazy conversation we have seen.