“You’re on,” barked Mr. Hines.  “I’ll take it.”

“To be published, I suppose, on the first anniversary of death.  Shall I look after the insertion in the papers?” queried the obliging poet, who split an advertising agent’s percentage on memorial notices placed by him.

“Sure.  Got any more?  I’d spend a hundred to do this right.”

With a smile of astounded gratification, Bartholomew accepted the roll of bills, fresh and crisp as the visitor himself.  To do him justice, I believe that his pleasure was due as much to the recognition of his genius as to the stipend it had earned.

“Perhaps you’d like a special elegy to be read at the grave,” he rumbled eagerly.  “When and where did the interment take place?”

The other glared at him in stony surprise.  “It ain’t taken place.  It’s to-morrow.  Ain’t you on?  I’m Hines.”

A frown darkened the sexton’s heavy features.  He shook a reprehensive head.  “An unfortunate case,” he boomed; “most unfortunate.  I will not conceal from you, Mr. Hines, that I have consulted our attorneys upon this case, and unhappily—­unhappily, I say—­they hold that there is no basis for exclusion provided the certificate is in form.  You have it with you?”

Impassive and inscrutable, Mr. Hines tapped his breast-pocket.

The conscience of a responsible sexton being assuaged, Bartholomew’s expression mollified into that of the flattered poet.

“Such being the case,” he pursued, “there can be no objection to the reading of an elegy as part of the service.  Who is to officiate?”

“The Reverend Doctor Hackett.”

“He has retired these two years,” said the sexton doubtfully.  “He is very old.  His mind sometimes wanders.”

“She wouldn’t have any one else,” asserted the hard, pink Mr. Hines.  “She was as particular about that as about being buried yonder.”  He jerked his head toward the window.

“Very well.  I will be at the grave.  I always am.  Trust me to guide the reverend gentleman over any breach in his memory.  Excuse me for a moment while I look up my elegies.”

“Say,” said Mr. Hines in his hoarse, confidential croak, as the poet-sexton retired, “this is dead easy.  Why, the guy’s on the make.  For sale.  He’ll stand for anything.  Passing out this stuff for other folks to sign!  He’s a crook!”

“Make no such mistake,” I advised.  “Bartholomew is as honest a man as lives, in his own belief.”

“Very likely.  That’s the worst kind,” pronounced the expert Mr. Hines.

Further commentary was cut off by the return of the sexton-poet.  “If you will kindly give me the death certificate of the late lamented,” said he.

“What becomes of it after I deliver it?” asked Mr. Hines.

“Read, attested, and filed officially.”

“Any one else but you see it?”

“Not necessarily.”

“That’s all right, then.”