inquired the people, and stepped about lively upon each other’s corns, in their effort to reach the catafalk where the relatives were assembled.
Petroczig, as paralyzed as if he had been turned suddenly into a statue, gave the explanation, in a tone that resembled despair.
“My brother-in-law has not come: he has been delayed.”
It was really true; the dead man had delayed his own funeral. They sought him on the train, but he was nowhere to be found, although a telegram had come which said that he had been sent on it. There was nothing for it now but for the assembly of mourners to depart, and to beg the pardon of the others, that they had come in vain.
“How people do change when they are dead!” observed the reverend Pastor Mukuczek, angrily. “The blessed man was always so punctual, too, when he was alive.”
The crowd dispersed, while the family hastened to demand again the body by telegram. But it did not come the next day, nor the third, nor the fourth. They could not get any trace of it.
At length after elapse of a week they found it in Vienna. So Fate willed it that he should visit
