“How long has he ben dead?”
It seemed judicious to enlarge the facts to fit the probabilities; so I
said,
“Two or three days.”
But it did no good; for Thompson received it with an injured look which
plainly said, “Two or three years, you mean.” Then he went right along,
placidly ignoring my statement, and gave his views at considerable
length upon the unwisdom of putting off burials too long. Then he
lounged off toward the box, stood a moment, then came back on a sharp
trot and visited the broken pane, observing,
“'Twould 'a' ben a dum sight better, all around, if they'd started him
along last summer.”
Thompson sat down and buried his face in his red silk handkerchief, and
began to slowly sway and rock his body like one who is doing his best
to endure the almost unendurable. By this time the fragrance--if you may
call it fragrance--was just about suffocating, as near as you can come
at it. Thompson's face was turning gray; I knew mine hadn't any color
left in it. By and by Thompson rested his forehead in his left hand,
with his elbow on his knee, and sort of waved his red handkerchief
towards the box with his other hand, and said,--
“I've carried a many a one of 'em,--some of 'em considerable overdue,
too,--but, lordy, he just lays over 'em all!--and does it easy Cap.,
they was heliotrope to HIM!”
This recognition of my poor friend gratified me, in spite of the sad
circumstances, because it had so much the sound of a compliment.
Pretty soon it was plain that something had got to be done. I suggested
cigars. Thompson thought it was a good idea. He said,
“Likely it'll modify him some.”
We puffed gingerly along for a while, and tried hard to imagine that
things were improved. But it wasn't any use. Before very long, and
without any consultation, both cigars were quietly dropped from our
nerveless fingers at the same moment. Thompson said, with a sigh,
“No, Cap., it don't modify him worth a cent. Fact is, it makes him
worse, becuz it appears to stir up his ambition. What do you reckon we
better do, now?”
I was not able to suggest anything; indeed, I had to be swallowing and
swallowing, all the time, and did not like to trust myself to speak.
Thompson fell to maundering, in a desultory and low-spirited way, about
the miserable experiences of this night; and he got to referring to my
poor friend by various titles,--sometimes military ones, sometimes civil
ones; and I noticed that as fast as my poor friend's effectiveness grew,
Thompson promoted him accordingly,--gave him a bigger title. Finally he
said,
“I've got an idea. Suppos' n we buckle down to it and give the Colonel a
bit of a shove towards t'other end of the car?--about ten foot, say. He
wouldn't have so much influence, then, don't you reckon?”
I said it was a good scheme. So we took in a good fresh breath at the
broken pane, calculating to hold it till we got through; then we went
there and bent over that deadly cheese and took a grip on the box.
Thompson nodded “All ready,” and then we threw ourselves forward with
all our might; but Thompson slipped, and slumped down with his nose
on the cheese, and his breath got loose. He gagged and gasped, and
floundered up and made a break for the door, pawing the air and saying
hoarsely, “Don't hender me!--gimme the road! I'm a-dying; gimme the
road!” Out on the cold platform I sat down and held his head a while,
and he revived. Presently he said,
“Do you reckon we started the Gen'rul any?”