He
pressed his lips together, and nodded silently to the black Ladies of
Tabor.
Presently the white undertaker, a silent little man with a brisk yet
sympathetic air, came and made some measurements. He talked to Peter in
undertones about the finishing of the casket, how much the Knights of
Tabor would pay, what Peter wanted. Then he spoke of the hour of burial,
and mentioned a somewhat early hour because some of the negroes wanted
to ship as roustabouts on the up-river packet, which was due at any
moment.
These decisions, asked of Peter, kept pricking him and breaking through
the stupefaction of this sudden tragedy. He kept nodding a mechanical
agreement until the undertaker had arranged all the details. Then the
little man moved softly out of the cabin and went stepping away through
the dust of Niggertown with professional briskness. A little later two
black grave-diggers set out with picks and shovels for the negro
graveyard.
Numberless preparations for the funeral were going on all over
Niggertown. The Knights of Tabor were putting on their regalia.
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