“You’re the judge.
If that’s the best you’ve g-g-g-got, we’ll take it.”
No, no! thought Eugene.
You mustn’t interrupt.
Let him go on.
“But,” said Horse Hines relentlessly, “there’s no need for you to take that one, either.
What you’re after, Luke, is dignity and simplicity.
Is that right?”
“Yes,” said the sailor meekly,
“I guess you’re right at that, Mr. Hines.”
Now we’ll have it, thought Eugene.
This man takes joy in his work.
“Well, then,” said Horse Hines decisively, “I was going to suggest to you boys that you take this one.”
He put his hand affectionately upon a handsome casket at his side.
“This is neither too plain nor too fancy.
It’s simple and in good taste.
Silver handles, you see — silver plate here for the name.
You can’t go wrong on this one.
It’s a good buy.
She’ll give you value for every dollar you put into it.”
They walked around the coffin, staring at it critically.
After a moment, Luke said nervously:
“How — wh — wh — wh-what’s the price of this one?”
“That sells for $450,” said Horse Hines. “But,” he added, after a moment’s dark reflection, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do.
Your father and I are old friends.
Out of respect for the family, I’ll let you have it at cost —$375.”
“What do you say, ‘Gene?” the sailor asked.
“Does it look all right to you?”
Do your Christmas shopping early.
“Yes,” said Eugene, “let’s take it.
I wish there were another color.
I don’t like black,” he added.
“Haven’t you got any other color?”
Horse Hines stared at him a moment.
“Black IS the color,” he said.
Then, after a moment’s silence, he went on:
“Would you boys care to see the body?”
“Yes,” they said.
He led them on tiptoe down the aisle of the coffins, and opened a door to a room behind.
It was dark.
They entered and stood with caught breath.
Horse Hines switched on a light and closed the door.
Ben, clad in his best suit of clothes, a neat one of dark gray-black, lay in rigid tranquillity upon a table.
His hands, cold and white, with clean dry nails, withered a little like an old apple, were crossed loosely on his stomach.
He had been closely shaved: he was immaculately groomed.
The rigid head was thrust sharply upward, with a ghastly counterfeit of a smile: there was a little gum of wax at the nostrils, and a waxen lacing between the cold firm lips.
The mouth was tight, somewhat bulging.
It looked fuller than it ever had looked before.
There was a faint indefinably cloying odor.
The sailor looked with superstition, nervously, with puckered forehead.