rifle company in Peoria, Illinois, and he had got my corpse!] Just then
the conductor sung out “All aboard,” and I jumped into the express car
and got a comfortable seat on a bale of buckets. The expressman was
there, hard at work,–a plain man of fifty, with a simple, honest, good-
natured face, and a breezy, practical heartiness in his general style.
As the train moved off a stranger skipped into the car and set a package
of peculiarly mature and capable Limburger cheese on one end of my
coffin-box–I mean my box of guns. That is to say, I know now that it
was Limburger cheese, but at that time I never had heard of the article
in my life, and of course was wholly ignorant of its character. Well, we
sped through the wild night, the bitter storm raged on, a cheerless
misery stole over me, my heart went down, down, down! The old expressman
made a brisk remark or two about the tempest and the arctic weather,
slammed his sliding doors to, and bolted them, closed his window down
tight, and then went bustling around, here and there and yonder, setting
things to rights, and all the time contentedly humming “Sweet By and By,”
in a low tone, and flatting a good deal. Presently I began to detect a
most evil and searching odor stealing about on the frozen air. This
depressed my spirits still more, because of course I attributed it to my
poor departed friend. There was something infinitely saddening about his
calling himself to my remembrance in this dumb pathetic way, so it was
hard to keep the tears back. Moreover, it distressed me on account of
the old expressman, who, I was afraid, might notice it. However, he went
humming tranquilly on, and gave no sign; and for this I was grateful.
Grateful, yes, but still uneasy; and soon I began to feel more and more
uneasy every minute, for every minute that went by that odor thickened up
the more, and got to be more and more gamey and hard to stand.
Presently, having got things arranged to his satisfaction, the expressman
got some wood and made up a tremendous fire in his stove.
This distressed me more than I can tell, for I could not but feel that it
was a mistake. I was sure that the effect would be deleterious upon my
poor departed friend. Thompson–the expressman’s name was Thompson, as I
found out in the course of the night–now went poking around his car,
stopping up whatever stray cracks he could find, remarking that it didn’t
make any difference what kind of a night it was outside, he calculated to
make us comfortable, anyway. I said nothing, but I believed he was not
choosing the right way. Meantime he was humming to himself just as
before; and meantime, too, the stove was getting hotter and hotter, and
the place closer and closer. I felt myself growing pale and qualmish,
but grieved in silence and said nothing.
Soon I noticed that the “Sweet By and By ” was gradually fading out; next
it ceased altogether, and there was an ominous stillness. After a few
moments Thompson said,
“Pfew! I reckon it ain’t no cinnamon ‘t I’ve loaded up thish-yer stove
with!”
He gasped once or twice, then moved toward the cof–gun-box, stood over
that Limburger cheese part of a moment, then came back and sat down near
me, looking a good deal impressed. After a contemplative pause, he said,
indicating the box with a gesture,
“Friend of yourn?”
“Yes,” I said with a sigh.
“He’s pretty ripe, ain’t he!”
Nothing further was said for perhaps a couple of minutes, each being busy
with his own thoughts; then Thompson said, in a low, awed voice,
“Sometimes it’s uncertain whether they’re really gone or not,–seem gone,
you know–body warm, joints limber–and so, although you think they’re
gone, you don’t really know. I’ve had cases in my car. It’s perfectly
awful, becuz you don’t know what minute they’ll rise up and look at you!”
Then, after a pause, and slightly lifting his elbow toward the box,–
“But he ain’t in no trance! No, sir, I go bail for him!”