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Told In The Storm
by
“Well, in the early summer I get a letter from the steamboat agent at Nome saying Manard’s people out in the States have slipped him some coin, with instructions to send the old man out so they can give him decent burial. He offers me one-fifty to bring him down to the coast. Now, this decent-burial talk makes me sore, for I staged the obsequies myself, and they were in perfect form. It was one of the tastiest funerals I ever mixed with. However, I’m broke, so I agree to deliver what is left of Manard at the mouth of the river, and the agent says he’ll have a first-class coffin shipped down to the trader at Chinik, our landing. When I deliver Manard, ready for shipment, I get my hundred and fifty.
“I give you my word I ain’t tickled pink with this undertaking. I’m not strong on body-snatching, and I have a hunch that the shade of old Manard is still hanging around somewhere. However, a bird in the hand is the noblest work of God, and I need that roll, so I make ready. It takes me half a day to get drunk enough to want to do the job, and when I get drunk enough to want to do it I’m so drunk I can’t. Then I have to sober up and begin all over again. The minute I get sober enough to do the trick I realize I ain’t drunk enough to stand the strain. I jockey that way for quite a spell till I finally strike an average, being considerable scared and reckless to the same extent.
“I remembered that we planted the old man in the left-hand grave, but when I get to the graveyard I can’t recollect whether I stood at the foot or at the head of the hole during the services–a pint of that mining-camp hootch would box the compass for any man–so I think I’ll make sure.
“I have brought along three tools–a pick, a shovel, and a bottle of rye. The ground is froze, so I use all of them. Naturally I can’t afford to get the wrong Frenchman, so I pry up the lid of the first box I uncover and take a good rubber. Well, sir, it is a shock! Instead of rags and bones like I’m expecting, there is old Manard in statuary quo, so to speak. Froze? Maybe so. Anyhow, he grins at me! That’s what I said! He grins at me, and I take it on the lam. Understand, I have no intentions of running away–in fact, I don’t know I’m doing it until I fetch up back in the saloon. It seems I just balanced my body on my legs and they did all the work.
“Well, I’m pretty well rattled, so I blot up another pint of pain-killer, and finally the bartender goes back with me and helps load Manard into my Peterboro. I’m pretty wet by this time. We get the box into the canoe all right, but it’s too big to fit under the seat, so we place the foot of it on the bottom of the boat and rest the other end on a paddle laid across the gunnels. This sort of gives Manard the appearance of lounging back on an incline. You see, when I ripped up the boards to take a look I broke off a piece at a knot-hole, and that allows him a chance to look out with one eye. He seems to approve of the position, however, so I get in at the stern, facing him, and ask if he’s ready. He gives me the nod, and I shove off. Just for company I take my grave-digging tools along–that is, all but the pick and the shovel. It was pretty near full when I started, but I lose the cork and drink it up for safety.
“I don’t remember much about the first part of the trip except that I get awful lonesome. By and by I begin to sing: