If you don't lock him up he will certainly become a poet. He will
set your precious world of sanity ablaze with the fire of his mother,
the moon. Your palaces will totter, Taylor, and your kingdoms become
as dust. I have warned you." "That's right, sir; and now you must come with me." "Boy," said the man generously, "keep your liberty. By grace of
Providence, all men in authority are fools. We shall meet again under
the light of the moon." With dreamy eyes the boy watched the departure of his companion. He
had become almost invisible along the road when, miraculously as it
seemed, the light of the moon broke through the trees by the wayside
and lit up his figure. For a moment it fell upon his head like a
halo, and touched the knapsack of dreams with glory. Then all was
lost in the blackness of night. As he turned homeward the boy felt a cold wind upon his cheek. It was
the first breath of dawn. The Coffin Merchant

                                  I

London on a November Sunday inspired Eustace Reynolds with a
melancholy too insistent to be ignored and too causeless to be
enjoyed. The grey sky overhead between the house-tops, the cold wind
round every street-corner, the sad faces of the men and women on the
pavements, combined to create an atmosphere of ineloquent misery. Eustace was sensitive to impressions, and in spite of a
half-conscious effort to remain a dispassionate spectator of the
world's melancholy, he felt the chill of the aimless day creeping
over his spirit. Why was there no sun, no warmth, no laughter on the
earth? What had become of all the children who keep laughter like a
mask on the faces of disillusioned men? The wind blew down
Southampton Street, and chilled Eustace to a shiver that passed away
in a shudder of disgust at the sombre colour of life. A windy Sunday
in London before the lamps are lit, tempts a man to believe in the
nobility of work. At the corner by Charing Cross Telegraph Office a man thrust a
handbill under his eyes, but he shook his head impatiently. The
blueness of the fingers that offered him the paper was alone
sufficient to make him disinclined to remove his hands from his
pockets even for an instant. But, the man would not be dismissed so
lightly. "Excuse me, sir," he said, following him, "you have not looked to
see what my bills are." "Whatever they are I do not want them." "That's where you are wrong, sir," the man said earnestly. "You will
never find life interesting if you do not lie in wait for the
unexpected. As a matter of fact, I believe that my bill contains
exactly what you do want." Eustace looked at the man with quick curiosity. His clothes were
ragged, and the visible parts of his flesh were blue with cold, but
his eyes were bright with intelligence and his speech was that of an
educated man. It seemed to Eustace that he was being regarded with a
keen expectancy, as though his decision I on the trivial point was of
real importance. "I don't know what you are driving at," he said, "but if it will give
you any pleasure I will take one of your bills; though if you argue
with all your clients as you have with me, it must take you a long
time to get rid of them." "I only offer them to suitable persons," the man said, folding up one
of the handbills while he spoke, "and I'm sure you will not regret
taking it," and he slipped the paper into Eustace's hand and walked
rapidly away. Eustace looked after him curiously for a moment, and then opened the
paper in his hand. When his eyes comprehended its significance, he
gave a low whistle of astonishment. "You will soon be warning a
coffin!" it read. "At 606, Gray's Inn Road, your order will be
attended to with civility and despatch. Call and see us!!" Eustace swung round quickly to look for the man, but he was out of
sight. The wind was growing colder, and the lamps were beginning to
shine out in the greying streets. Eustace crumpled the paper into
his overcoat pocket, and turned homewards. "How silly!" he said to himself, in conscious amusement. The sound of
his footsteps on the pavement rang like an echo to his laugh. II

Eustace was impressionable but not temperamentally morbid, and he was
troubled a little by the fact that the gruesomely bizarre handbill
continued to recur to his mind. The thing was so manifestly absurd,
he told himself with conviction, that it was not worth a second
thought, but this did not prevent him from thinking of it again and
again. What manner of undertaker could hope to obtain business by
giving away foolish handbills in the street? Really, the whole thing
had the air of a brainless practical joke, yet his intellectual
fairness forced him to admit that as far as the man who had given him
the bill was concerned, brainlessness was out of the question, and
joking improbable. There had been depths in those little bright
eyes which his glance had not been able to sound, and the man's
manner in making him accept the handbill had given the whole
transaction a kind of ludicrous significance. "You will soon be wanting a coffin----!" Eustace found himself turning the words over and over in his mind. If he had had any near relations he might have construed the thing
as an elaborate threat, but he was practically alone in the world,
and it seemed to him that he was not likely to want a coffin for
anyone but himself. "Oh damn the thing!" he said impatiently, as he opened the door of
his flat, "it isn't worth worrying about. I mustn't let the whim of
some mad tradesman get on my nerves. I've got no one to bury,
anyhow." Nevertheless the thing lingered with him all the evening, and when
his neighbour the doctor came in for a chat at ten o'clock, Eustace
was glad to show him the strange handbill. The doctor, who had
experienced the queer magics that are practised to this day on the
West Coast of Africa, and who, therefore, had no nerves, was
delighted with so striking an example of British commercial
enterprise. "Though, mind you," he added gravely, smoothing the crumpled paper on
his knee, "this sort of thing might do a lot of harm if it fell into
the hands of a nervous subject. I should be inclined to punch the
head of the ass who perpetrated it. Have you turned that address up
in the Post Office Directory?" Eustace shook his head, and rose and fetched the fat red book which
makes London an English city. Together they found the Gray's Inn
Road, and ran their eyes down to No. 606. "'Harding, G. J., Coffin Merchant and Undertaker.' Not much
information there," muttered the doctor. "Coffin merchant's a bit unusual, isn't it?" queried Eustace. "I suppose he manufactures coffins wholesale for the trade. Still, I
didn't know they called themselves that. Anyhow, it seems, as though
that handbill is a genuine piece of downright foolishness. The idiot
ought to be stopped advertising in that way." "I'll go and see him myself tomorrow," said Eustace bluntly. "Well, he's given you an invitation," said the doctor, "so it's only
polite of you to go.