It is Rigor Mortis, the worthy coroner. At
sight of him the Colonel uplifts his voice in hoarsely jovial
salutation:
"Rigsy, my boy," he booms, "how are you? And how is Mrs. M. this
morning?"
"Well, Colonel," answers his friend, "my wife ain't no better.
She's mighty puny and complaining. Sometimes I get to wishing the
old lady would get well - or something!"
The Colonel laughs, but not loudly. That wheeze was old in 79.
In front of the drug-store on the corner a score of young bloods,
dressed in snappy togas for Varsity men, are skylarking. They are
especially brilliant in their flashing interchanges of wit and
humor, because the Mastodon Minstrels were here only last week,
with a new line of first-part jokes. Along the opposite side of
the street passes Nux Vomica, M.D., with a small black case in his
hand, gravely intent on his professional duties. Being a young
physician, he wears a beard and large-rimmed eyeglasses. Young
Ossius Dome sees him and hails him.
"Oh, Doc!" he calls out. "Come over here a minute. I've got some
brand-new limerickii for you. Tertiary Tonsillitis got 'em from
a traveling man he met day before yesterday when he was up in the
city laying in his stock of fall and winter armor."
The healer of ills crosses over; and as the group push themselves
in toward a common center I hear the voice of the speaker:
