the Cologne smell of a four-acre establishment of that sort."
"To resume," resumed Mark, "seeing each other nightly for a week or a week and a half, that undertaker chap and this here yellow journalist of literature got on famously, and our acquaintance, though by eyesight only, gradually blossomed into real brotherhood. Whenever I clapped eyes on the poor devil, I used to think: I do wish some one would have the heart to die. Why don't the Gloomy Dean or His Grace of Canterbury oblige the poor shark?
"And no doubt, observing my gray locks and general decrepitude, he calculated: 'Time for him to kick the bucket—hope his wife will give me a chance to measure him for a ten-guinea wooden coat—yes, he looks good for ten guineas.'
"Anyhow," said Mark, "I felt in my heart of hearts that I was worth more dead than alive to this person—rotten grammar, I know, but don't let that muss up your tempers, gents—and while the idea of suicide was repugnant (I was making big money then, that is, I expected to rake in $100.00 or more next week) still I cudgeled my brain for ways and means to improve his business. It's easy enough to promote a grocer's or butcher's trade; all you have to do is to get rid of your sour stomach at some Appetite Cure Factory, and pitch in anew with dill pickles and strong coffee and frankfurters and sweetbreads and
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