He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives.

You kicked hard, for Asaph’s coffin was on the floor. It was just as he had recognized old Matt’s coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. That he was not an evil man. I’ll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. God, what a rage! Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. It was just as he had recognized old Matt’s coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. In either case it would have been appropriate; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside. The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to realize the truth and to shout loudly as if his horse outside could do more than neigh an unsympathetic reply. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket’s lid, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree.

The air had begun to be exceedingly unwholesome; but to this detail he paid no attention as he toiled, half by feeling, at the heavy and corroded metal of the latch. Davis died. He would have given much for a lantern or bit of candle; but lacking these, bungled semi-sightlessly as best he might. Perhaps he screamed. He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. There was evidently, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted.

The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that it was possible to give all of Birch’s inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb. The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault.

Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider. The pile of tools soon reached, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things. His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that. Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient’s outer clothing, shoes, and socks. I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself.

Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted.

Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling. The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. The air had begun to be exceedingly unwholesome; but to this detail he paid no attention as he toiled, half by feeling, at the heavy and corroded metal of the latch. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died.

His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. The light was dim, but Birch’s sight was good, and he planned to save the rejected specimen, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever.

He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. Only the coffins themselves remained as potential stepping-stones, and as he considered these he speculated on the best mode of transporting them. On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. This arrangement could be ascended with a minimum of awkwardness, and would furnish the desired height. The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. I live.

In either case it would have been appropriate; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. An eye for an eye! In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling. The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not an evil man. And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course. For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. Sawyer in their last illnesses. His day’s work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that. Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient’s outer clothing, shoes, and socks. Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. Birch to the outside of a spare bed and sent his little son Edwin for Dr. Davis. He cried aloud once, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry.

In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer.

The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that it was possible to give all of Birch’s inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb.