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It was necessary to tame that householder to docility, and what should achieve this sooner than a great fright? At the fearful hints of Inspector Val they were in his manner more than in his words the purple nose of Mr. Warmdollar became a disastrous gray. Beholding this encouraging symptom, Inspector Val delayed no longer, but bid him beat upon the San Reve's door. This Mr.
Inspector Val heaved a half-sigh, as even men most like chilled steel will when in the near company of death, and then, stiffening professionally, he called in Mr. Warmdollar, still weeping drunken tears at the stair's foot. "I want, for your own sake," explained Inspector Val, "to impress upon you the propriety of silence.
Then the farmer came to his door, arrayed in a shirt and a shotgun, and emptied both barrels of the latter at Mr. Warmdollar and his sentry-box the agriculturist not understanding the case, as sometimes happens to agriculturists, notably in politics. Following his baptism of dog and fire, Mr. Warmdollar crawled back to town and worked no more. Mrs.
Warmdollar was a lady in whom curiosity had had its day and died, she asked no questions the answers to which might prove embarrassing. The San Reve, like Mrs. Warmdollar, worked in a department, being a draughtswoman in the Treasury Building, and attached to the staff of the supervising architect.
"Take it until something better turns up," urged one of the Senators, who had grown tired of having Mr. Warmdollar on his hands. It was a blustering night of rain when Mr. Warmdollar entered upon his initial vigil as a guardian of the dead. Wet, weary, disgusted, Mr.
Warmdollar wrung his hands; his imagination, fretted into fever by the remoteness of his latest whisky toddy, whisky toddy being Mr. Warmdollar's favorite tipple, began to give him pictures of what dread things lay hidden in the silence beyond that unresponsive door.
Warmdollar was tendered a position as guard about the congressional cemetery, said last resting-place of greatness-gone-to-sleep being a wild, weird tract in a semi-farmerish region on the fringe of town. Mr. Warmdollar objected to the place, and the gloomy kind of its duties; but since this was before Mrs. Warmdollar had begun to earn a salary as scrubwoman, he was driven to accept.
The house was occupied by a stirring lady named Warmdollar, who served her country as head scrubwoman in one of the big departments a place of fatter salary than its menial name implies. There was a Mr. Warmdollar, who in an earlier hour had held through two terms a seat in Congress. This was years before.
Warmdollar was named scrubwoman, while her disheartened spouse devoted himself to strong drink, as though to color one's nose and fuddle one's wits were the great purposes of existence. Being eager of gain, Mrs. Warmdollar had sub-rented her parlor floor to the San Reve; and since Mrs.
Warmdollar sought refuge in a coop of a sentry-box, which stood upon the crest of a hill through which the road that bounded one side of the burying ground had been cut. The sentry-box was waterproof and to that extent a comfort, being designed for deluges of the sort then soaking Mr. Warmdollar. Had there been nothing but a downpour, Mr.
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