It was a chill Harlem evening. The Undertaker sat in his easy chair smoking his pipe of clay. About him were ranged the tools and trappings of his gruesome art. On trestles, over in the corner's gliding shadows, lay the remains he had just been monkeying with.

At last, as one who reviews his work, the Undertaker arose, and scanned the wan map of the Departed.

“He makes a great front,” mused the Undertaker. “He looks out of sight, and it ought to fetch her.”

Back to his chair roamed the Undertaker. As he seated himself he touched a bell. The Poet of the establishment glided dreamily in. The Undertaker, not only straightened the kinks out of corpses to the Queen's taste, but he furnished epitaphs, and as well, verses for those grief-bitten. These latter were to run in the papers with the funeral notice.

“Have youse torn off that epitaph for his jiblets?” asked the Undertaker, nodding towards Deceased.

“What was it you listed for?” asked the Poet.

“D' epitaph for William Henry Weld,” replied the Undertaker. The Poet passed over the desired epitaph.

William Henry Weld.

(Aged 26 years.)

His race he win with pain and sin,

At Satan he did mock;

St. Peter said as he let him in:

“It's Willie, in a walk!”

“You're a wonder!” cried the Undertaker, when he had finished the perusal, and he gave the Poet the glad hand. “Here's d' price. Go and fill your tank.”

“That should win her,” reflected the Undertaker, when the poet had wended his way; “that ought to leave her on both sides of d' road. What I've done for Deceased, and that epitaph should knock her silly. She shall be mine!”

II

PUBLIC interest having been aroused in the corpse, it may be well to tell how it became that way.

Deceased was William Henry Weld. Five days before the opening of our story, William donned his skates and lined out on one of his periodicals. For four days he debauched to beat four kings and an ace.

And William had adventures. He paid a fine; he fell down a coal hole; he invaded a laundry and administered the hot wallops to the presiding Chinaman. On the fourth day he declared himself in on a ball not far from Sixth Avenue.

“Ah, there!” quoth William, archly, to a beautiful being to whom he had not been introduced. “Ah, there! Tricksey; I choose youse for d' next waltz.”

“Nit; not on your life!” murmured the beautiful one.

As William Henry Weld was about to make fitting response, a coarse, vulgar person approached.

“What for be youse jimmin' 'round me pick?” asked this person.

“That's d' stuff, Barney!” said the beautiful one. “Don't do a t'ing to him!”

The next instant William Henry Weld was cast into outer darkness.

“It's all right, Old Man!” said the friend who rescued William Henry Weld, “I'm goin' to take youse home. Your wife ain't on to me, an' I'll fake it I'm a off'cer, see! I'll give her d' razzle dazzle of her existence, an' square youse wit' her.”

“It's Willie!” said the friend to Arabella Weld, as he supported her husband into the sitting-room. “It's Willie, an' he's feelin' O. K. but weedy. Me name, madam, is Jackson—Jackson, of d' secret p'lice. Willie puts himse'f in me hands as a sacred trust to bring him home.”

“Is he sick?” moaned Arabella Weld, as she began to let her hair down, preparatory to a yell.

“Never touched him!” assured the friend. “Naw; Willie's off his feed a bit. You sees, madam, Willie hired out to a hypnotist purely in d' interest of science, an' he's been in a trance four days, see! That's why he ain't home. Bein' in a trance, he couldn't send woid. Now all he needs is a rest for, say, a week. Oughtn't to let him get out of his crib for a week.”

At 4 o'clock the next morning William Henry Weld began to see blue-winged goats. Arabella Weld “sprung” a glass of water on him.

“Give it a chase!” shrieked William Henry Weld, wildly waving the false beverage aside.

In his ratty condition he didn't tumble to the pure element's identity, but thought it was one of those Things.

At 5 o'clock A. M. William Henry Weld didn't do a thing but perish. When the glorious sun again poured down its golden mellow beams, the Undertaker had his hooks on him and Arabella Weld was a widow.

III

BUT to return to the Undertaker, the real hero of our tale. We left him in his studio poring over the epitaph of William Henry Weld, while Departed rehearsed his dumb and silent turn for eternity in the corner's lurking shadow. At last the Undertaker roused himself from his reveries.

“I must to bed!” he said; “it waxeth late, and tomorrow I propose for her in wedlock.”

Next morning the Undertaker arose refreshed. He had smote his ear for full eight hours. He felt fit to propose for his life, let alone the delicate duke of Arabella Weld.

The Undertaker's adored one was to come at noon. She wanted to size up Departed prior to the obsequies.

Although it was but 9 o'clock, the Undertaker had to get a curve on himself to keep his date with Arabella Weld at midday. He had an invalid to measure for a coffin—it was a riveted cinch the party would die—and then there was a corpse to shave in the next block. These duties were giving him the crowd.

But our hero made it; played every inning without an error, and was organised for Arabella Weld when she arrived.

As they stood together—Arabella and the man who, all unknown to her, loved her so madly—looking down at Deceased, she could not repress her admiration.

“On d' dead! I never saw Willie look so well,” she said. “He's very much improved. You must have taken a woild of pains wit' Willie.”

The Undertaker was silent.

Struck by this, Arabella Weld turned her full lustrous lamps on the Undertaker and saw it all. It was for her, the loving heart beside her had toiled over Deceased like an artist over a picture.

Swift is Love, and the Undertaker, quivering with his great passion, twigged in an instant that Arabella was onto him. A vast joy swept his heart like a torrent.

“I wanted him to make a hit for your sake,” he whispered, stealing his arm about her.

Arabella softly put his arm away.

“Not now,” she sighed. “It would be too soon a play. We must wait until we've got Willie off our hands—we must wait a year.”

“Wait a year!” and the pain of it bent the Undertaker like a willow. “Wait a year, dearest! Now, what's d' fun of that? You must take me for a farmer!” and his tones showed that the Undertaker was hurt.

“But in Herkimer County they wait a year,” faltered Arabella, wistfully.

“Sure! in Herkimer!” consented the Undertaker; “but that's Up-the-state. A week in Harlem is equal to a year in Herkimer. Let it be a week, love!”

“This isn't a game for Willie's life insurance?” and great crystals of pain and doubt swam in Arabella's glorious eyes.

“Oh, me love!” cried the Undertaker, fondly, yet desperately, “plant d' policy wit' Willie! Send it back to d' company if youse doubts me, an' tell 'em to call d' whole bluff a draw.”

The bit of paper, containing the epitaph, fluttered to the floor from her nerveless mits, her beautiful head sank on the broad shoulder of the Undertaker, and her tears flowed unrestrained.

IV

One week had passed since William Henry Weld was solemnly pigeon-holed for eternal reference.

The preacher received the couple in his study.

“Shall I marry you with the prayer-book, or would youse prefer the short cut?” he asked.

“Marry us on a deck of cards, if you choose!” faltered Arabella. Her eyes sought the floor, while the tell-tale blushes painted her lovely prospectus. “Only cinch the play, an' do it quick!”