but, if it were true, he must be terrible. . . . They said he died hard.
Mrs. Machin thought it would be only the respectable thing for herself, attended by one of the men, to go to the funeral. Windmill accompanied her, carrying his bowler hat in his hand, and trying to conceal his amusement by a frown.
The funeral was at three o'clock. It was a hazy, languid day of yellow sunshine and smoky horizon. As the hour drew near the three Scots and Phœbe gathered in the cherry orchard behind the kitchen garden from whence they could view the ceremony. Derek did not know whether to join them or not. As he was standing undecidedly in the porch Mr. Jerrold, his daughter, and Mr. Ramsey came down the road. They turned in at the gate followed by their dogs.
"Are we too late to see the ceremony?" asked Mr. Jerrold. "Gay has never seen an Indian funeral and she's determined not to miss the opportunity."
"From what I hear," said Derek, "it is to be very civilized. No savage rites for Chard. He has a minister from Mistwell who is to bring an autoharp."
"I think that's a splendid idea," said Mr. Ramsey. "I must get one."
"Oh, we shouldn't make fun of the Chards," said Grace Jerrold. "Mrs. Chard is a very good woman and very sincere in her religion."
"Lead on, Vale," interrupted her father. "I want to see the show."
They found an open space near Phœbe and the men, from which they could watch the proceedings almost unobserved. The body of Solomon in its cheap coffin had been carried from the cottage and placed on a pair of trestles near the table spread for the feast. About fifty Indians
