_"The Busted Funeral"_
The commotion that followed made dying a hard matter for Moore.
When the doctor and Mrs. Moore reached the house it took them
ten minutes, with the help of Dave Beach, to clear the room
of the people. When Mr. and Mrs. Morton came, quiet had been
restored on the inside, but on the street and at Fagin's they
were talking about the funeral expenses, etc., before they had
a corpse. In this neighborhood a funeral was looked upon as
something of a party or social function, not to be missed. Every
one turned out, never failing to dress for the occasion. Mrs.
Rose, Mrs. Kinney and Mrs. Washington (colored) were easily
in the lead when it came to professional mourners. As Dave Beach
said one time, they "could cry real tears at a moment's notice,
and keep it up as long as the water lasted and occasion demanded."
When Charlie Slater was drowned in the Slough they cried for
three days with Mrs. Slater, never going home for meals. Both
they and their children put black crape on their arms and lived
and cried with Mrs. Slater until Charlie was found. Mrs. Rose
kept the crape, and after a funeral would wash and iron it and
put it in the "burer" drawer until some one else died. When
she heard Bill's cry, she came running with a piece tied on
each arm and at least twenty pieces in her hand to supply the
neighbors. That she considered her first and solemn duty. Inside
of five minutes after Bill yelled and gave the alarm, every
one of the regulars was decorated for action.
Bill went to Fagin's and got three big drinks without money,
on the strength of Moore's death. He went into the back room,
buried his face in his hands and began to weep. He was honest
in his weeping, but he had too many drinks aboard and his snores
soon told their own story. Bill's cry of "Moore's dyin'!" was
soon turned to "Moore's dead; Bill says so." Of course Bill
knew nothing of the disturbance he had created, and slept
peacefully on in Fagin's back room. In the meantime Mrs. Cook
was trying to "square" Bill with the neighbors. After the mistake
was discovered every one blamed Bill that Moore was alive. Bill
and his wife would fight with each other almost daily. Bill
would swear that he had not tasted a drop when he was so drunk
he could scarcely see. He contended that he was never drunk
so long as he was sober enough to deny it. Mrs. Cook was possessed
of an uncontrollable temper, and when she became angry--and
she always did when Bill lied to her--she would completely lose
control of herself. As Jimmie said one day:
"Gee, der old girl'll bounce irons er any old thing she can
git her mitts on when she's sore. Her nose and her chin comes
together so fast when she talks dat she's got corns on both
of 'em."
She washed and worked until three or four o'clock in the morning
to care for her children, and would do anything she could for
any one, but when she got "sore," as Jimmie said, every one
gave her the right of way. "She calls Bill every name on der
calendar, but when it comes ter any one else saying a word about
him, she won't stand fer it."
"If Bill said that Bob Moore's dead, he's dead, er soon will
be," she said. "He knows a dead one when he sees it. It's a
sure thing anyhow, and what difference does an hour or two make?
The doctor says he's done fer anyhow."
As Mr. Morton left the house after Moore's death, he led Jimmie
by the hand. The little fellow had made some big promises for
one so small and frail, but he said God could and would help
him. He knew that he could do no more window work for Jewey
and his gang, neither could he work the depot crowds on Sunday
excursion trains with Fred Hood. As he passed Mrs. Cook he simply
said, "He's dead." Before leaving the house Morton had promised
Mrs. Moore to help her hold her family together and not allow
them to be sent to the Children's Home. Perhaps the promise
was not a wise one, but it is hard to refuse a mother such a
request in the presence of her dead husband. To raise girls
in Bucktown and have them turn out right would be the eighth
wonder of the world. The Children's Home would be much the best
place for them; but the mother heart revolts at separation.
"We must pray for money to pay your father's funeral expenses,
Jimmie," said Morton. Not knowing whence any of it was coming,
but believing that He would provide, they went to the undertaker
and made arrangements for the funeral. The next day being Sunday,
Morton spoke in one of the big down-town churches, and at the
close of his talk on "City Missions" he stated to that fashionable
audience just what was needed in the Moore household. After
the meeting enough money was placed in his hand to pay for one-half
of the entire expense. The next day was a busy one at the Mission.
To get clothes for all the children and to keep them clean enough
to go to the funeral at two o'clock was no easy matter. The
clothes room in the City Rescue Mission is a room where old
clothes sent in by well-to-do people are kept for the poor,
and hundreds of the less fortunate are cared for every year.
Three nurses from the hospital helped Mrs. Morton with the work.
With a tub of hot water, ivory soap and sapolio the scrubbing
started. They polished their faces until Jimmie said, "They
shine like a nigger's heel." The dressing was the hard part.
A blue skirt to fit the oldest girl could only be matched in
size by a bright green waist, and by her own choice a red ribbon
for a belt, with yellow ribbons for her stiff "pig-tails." Mrs.
Cook said "she looked like the pattern in a false-face factory."
Cast-off shoes were secured for all but Jimmie, and Mr. Morton
was compelled to take him to a shoe store and buy him his first
pair of new shoes. He had always worn shoes that some one else
had discarded. He could not keep his eyes off them as he walked
along the street. His warm underclothing and suit from some
rich boy's wardrobe, with new shoes, all in one day, was more
than he could stand. He was spotted by one of his friends who
was yelling, "Extra Press; read all about it!" Mr. Morton and
Jimmie came along and to them he said, "Paper, Mister?"
Jimmie raised his eyes from his shoes long enough to say, "Hello,
Swipsey! How'd yer like 'em?"
"Where'd yer git 'em?" asked Swipsey.
"Git 'em? I got 'em, ain't I? How'd yer like 'em?"
"Dead swell. Do I git yer old ones?"
"Ain't got no old ones; I give 'em ter the shoe store man. We
got a funeral at our house ter-day. Me Pa's died."
As Morton and a quartet reached the house with the children
a wonderful gathering was there to greet them. The old bed had
been taken down; the casket had been placed between the two
windows. Folding chairs, furnished by the undertaker, were placed
in rows before the casket. They were nearly filled by the friends
and mourners. Bill Cook sat close by the door, so that he might
be free to spit without getting up. "Big Liz" sat next to him,
smoking her pipe, but at the sight of Morton she put it under
her old apron. Several of the girls from the Dolly resort were
there to pay their respects. All the neighbors were there, either
in person or by proxy. As the quartet started to sing the old
song, "Jesus, Lover of My Soul," every one seemed to take it
as a signal to cry. No one seemed to know why they cried; but
all did their part in making the funeral a "howling success,"
as Mrs. Rose said. Before the song was ended "Big Liz" was weeping
louder than all the four singers could sing. Morton knew that
he must have a brief service, and after a short prayer and
Scripture reading he spoke words of comfort to the family and
told of Moore's wonderful conversion. As he pictured the glories
of heaven that await the redeemed and contrasted them with the
awful condition of the unrepentant in sin and hell, every one
trembled. Morton was very anxious to bring the people to a
decision, and felt that the time had come for a final invitation.
Bill Cook's eyes were fastened on Morton and, as he spoke of
hell and judgment, he was sure it was all intended for him.
"Big Liz" had forgotten the pipe in her lap. It had fallen over
and the contents had set her dress on fire. The smell of smoke
caused by the burning of cotton, wool, and dirt together did
not make a pleasing accompaniment for Morton's words. When the
smell reached Bill, he leaped into the middle of the room and
shouted, "Hell's here now!" Just at that moment "Big Liz" felt
the heat from the fire, and she jumped to Bill's side and said,
"Yer right, honey, and I'm sure in it." Morton saw what was
causing the trouble, and with the help of the undertaker succeeded
in getting Liz out upon the street. He called Bill and told
him to help her put out the fire. Bill was very much excited,
and he took Liz by the hand and started for the big watering
trough at the corner of the market. When he reached it he pushed
her into the water backward. "That busted up der funeral," as
Jimmie said. Such screaming had never been heard in Bucktown.
When she at last managed to get out of the icy water she started
for Bill, determined to kill him. Dave Beach headed him away
from Moore's funeral and gave Morton a chance to close with
a feeble prayer. The chance that he had prayed for so long,
to reach the people of Bucktown with the gospel, had come and
he had lost. He was heart-broken and felt the disappointment
keenly. Jimmie was quick to see it and, as the people viewed
the remains, he slipped up to Morton, and, pressing his hand,
said, "Don't yer care, we'll git 'em all yet."