The History of Mr. Polly

ory that it was imagination he suffered from, but compromised in the certificate with the appendicitis that was then so fashionable-and Mr. Polly found himself heir

jewelry and bric-a-brac, a quantity of nearly valueless old clothes and an insurance policy a

d of sociable tendencies necessarily turns his back a good deal upon home, and the aunt who had succeeded his mother was an economist and furniture polisher, a knuckle rapper and sharp silencer, no friend for a slovenly little boy. He had loved other little boys and girls transitorily, none had been frequent and familiar enough to strike deep roots in his heart, and he had grown up with a tattered and dissipated affectiona

ead. His cousin Johnson received him with much solemnity and ushered him upstairs, to look at a stiff, st

olly, disregarding the scorn

ful relief," sa

was a

Not counting mummies," said Mr. Polly,

all we

it, O' Man,"

hen, much to Mr. Polly's great reli

that the memory which seemed to link him nearest to the dead man was the memory of a fit of passion. His father had wanted to get a small sofa up the narrow winding staircase from the little room behind the shop to the bedroom above, and it had jammed. For a time his father had coaxed, and then groaned like a soul in torment and given way to blind fury, had sworn, kicked and struck at the offending piece of furniture and finally wrenched it upstairs, with considerable inc

s round impossible corners-in that symbol Mr. Polly co

ood time, poor old chap, and n

y eyes were deeply set. His lightest interest was cricket, but he did not take that lightly. His chief holiday was to go to a cricket match, which he did as if he was going to church, and he watched critically, applauded sparingly, and was darkly offended by any unorthodox play. His convictions upon all subjects were taciturnly inflexible. He was an obstinate player of draughts and chess, and an earnest and persistent reader of the British Weekly. His wife was a pink, short, wilfully smiling,

ng seem almo

ld apple tart and small beer had been cleared away, they put him into the armchair almost as though he was an invalid, and sat on chairs that made them look down on him, and opened a directive discu

espectful I think they are. I can't fancy how people can bring themselves to be buried in combinations." She flattened her voi

," said Johnson conclusively

s right and prope

me and measure at any

ge or two, according as to whom you'

f inviting any

d Mr. Johnson. "You can't let your father g

d meats like,"

lot of cooking with the ceremony coming into the middle of it. I wonder who Alfred ought to invite, Harold. Ju

our relations-

y be sure of that. It's just because of that I think t

sn't it?" said Mr

e or thirteen people if they

oom, and while we were all at the ceremony, Bessie could bring it all into the front room on a tra

our mourning?" aske

this by-product of sorrow. "Hav

his body as though he was blackenin

ust have mourn

Johnson with

rough," said Mr.

trousers. That's all you really want. And a black satin

t to have-as chief mour

atory," sa

spect," said

ect of course,

ly into the armchair, assenting with a note of protest to all they said. After he had retired for the night he remained for a long time p

th as a healthy animal must hate it. His mi

y somehow, I suppos

a bit more while he wa