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The Connetable told the old Sieur de Mauprat what people were blabbing, and in half-hour dead he is he." "Et ben, the Sieur's blood it is upon their heads," continued the Master of Burials; "it will rise up from the ground " The apprentice interrupted. "A good thing if the Sieur himself doesn't rise, for you'd get naught for coffin or obs'quies.
He sniffed, rubbed his nose with a forefinger, laboriously wrote for a moment, and then added: Ditto to Madame Denise Gareau for turnips for supper after obs'quies ...................... 10 sols "Saperlote, leave out the Madame, calf-lugs , you!" The apprentice did not move a finger. Obstinacy sat enthroned on him. In a rage, the Master made a snatch at a metal flower-wreath to throw at him.
"Man doux d'la vie, where's the Master of Burials?" babbled the jailer. "The apprentice does the obs'quies to-day." "The Master's sick of a squinzy," grunted the centenier. "So hatchet- face and bundle-o'-nails there brings dust to dust, amen."
He sniffed, rubbed his nose with a forefinger, laboriously wrote for a moment, and then added: Ditto to Madame Denise Gareau for turnips for supper after obs'quies ...................... 10 sols "Saperlote, leave out the Madame, calf-lugs , you!" The apprentice did not move a finger. Obstinacy sat enthroned on him. In a rage, the Master made a snatch at a metal flower-wreath to throw at him.
The Connetable told the old Sieur de Mauprat what people were blabbing, and in half-hour dead he is he." "Et ben, the Sieur's blood it is upon their heads," continued the Master of Burials; "it will rise up from the ground " The apprentice interrupted. "A good thing if the Sieur himself doesn't rise, for you'd get naught for coffin or obs'quies.
Assist at the obsequies?" "Obs'quies is good. Yes. That's it that's our little game. We are going to get the thing up regardless, you know. He was always nifty himself, and so you bet you his funeral ain't going to be no slouch solid silver door-plate on his coffin, six plumes on the hearse, and a nigger on the box in a biled shirt and a plug hat how's that for high?
"Man doux d'la vie, where's the Master of Burials?" babbled the jailer. "The apprentice does the obs'quies to-day." "The Master's sick of a squinzy," grunted the centenier. "So hatchet-face and bundle-o'-nails there brings dust to dust, amen."
"Dat 's a fac', suh, dat 's a fac'; so dey mus' so dey mus'. An' den all de dead has ter be buried. An' we does ou' sheer of it, suh, we does ou' sheer. We conduc's de obs'quies er all de bes' w'ite folks er de town, suh." Warwick left the undertaker's shop and retraced his steps until he had passed the lawyer's office, toward which he threw an affectionate glance.
Assist at the obsequies?" "Obs'quies is good. Yes. That's it that's our little game. We are going to get the thing up regardless, you know. He was always nifty himself, and so you bet you his funeral ain't going to be no slouch solid silver door-plate on his coffin, six plumes on the hearse, and a nigger on the box in a biled shirt and a plug hat how's that for high?
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