on New Year's Eve simply so as not to get mixed up in a fight, or expose himself to the risk of any accident, and so come to die on that day. He did not care a rap if he met his death on any other day whatsoever, provided only that nothing fatal befell him on New Year's Eve, for in that case he believed that he would be made to drive the death-cart."
"The death-cart? " repeated his two hearers together, in a tone of interrogation.
The tall fellow amused himself by whetting their curiosity, asking them if they really wanted to hear the story just where they were sitting; but they were eager for him to go on with it.
"Well, this friend of mine," he continued, " always used to assert that there is an old, old cart, of the sort which peasants use for carrying their goods to market, but so dilapidated that it never ought to exhibit itself on the king's highway. It is so bespattered with mud, so dusty and dirty, that one can hardly see what it is made of. Its shafts are flawed, its fellies sit so loosely that they rattle, the wheels have not seen grease within the memory of man, and creak in a way to drive one crazy. Its bottom is rotten, and the driver's cushion is tattered and torn, and half the back of the seat has been broken off. And' this' cart has an old, old horse that is one-eyed, lame, and grey with age in mane and tail. It is so skinny that its spine sticks up like a saw beneath its skin, and all its ribs can be counted. It is stiff-legged, lazy, and ill-disposed, and moves no faster than a young child crawls. For the horse there is harness that is worn out and motheaten, it has lost all its buckles and clasps, and the pieces are joined together with odds and ends of sail twine and birch twigs. It cannot boast a single boss of brass or silver, but only a few sparse tassels of yarn, which are a disfigurement and not an ornament. The reins are in keeping with the harness, for they consist solely of knot upon knot— they have been mended so often that nobody can make any "further use of them."
He got up and screeched out his hand for the bottle, perhaps give his audience time to reflect on that they had heard.
"Perhaps you think this sounds too much like romancing," he said, resuming his story; "but see, the fact is that, besides the harness and the wretched reins, there is a driver, who sits crooked and loathsome on the tattered seat, and drives the old horse. He is blue-black on the lips and grey-blue on the cheeks, and his eyes are as sombre as broken mirrors. He is clad in a long black stained monkish habit, with a cowl which he pulls down over his face, and in his hand he holds a blunt and rusty scythe in a long handle. And, mark you, the man who sits driving, with those reins tied together, is no ordinary driver, but is in the service of a grim master whose name is Death. Night and day he needs must fare on his master's errands. Directly anyone is doomed to die—understand that, friends—it is his duty to be on the spot. He comes rattling along in his creaking old cart, as fast as the lame horse can drag him."
The narrator paused, and tried to get a glimpse of his companions' faces. When he discovered that they were as attentive as he could possibly desire he, went on with his story.
"You have possibly seen some picture or other of Death, and you have perhaps noticed that, for the most part, he goes on foot. That is not Death himself, but only his driver. Look you, one might think that, so high and mighty a lord maybe' will garner none but the very finest crops, and will leave to his driver the care of the poor little straws and weeds that grow by the wayside. But now you must pay attention to the most curious thing in this story. Well, the legend is that, though there is always the same cart and the same horse to make the rounds in this particular business, yet it is not always the same driver. That grim figure will be the last man or woman who dies during the year—the one who gives up the ghost just as the clock strikes twelve on New Year's Eve—and is foredoomed to. become Death's driver. His corpse will be buried like all other corpses, but his wraith must don the monk's habit, grasp the scythe, and journey round from one house of death to another for a whole year, till he or she is released on the next New Year's Eve.
He ended his story, and gazed at his undersized companions with a look of crafty expectation. He noticed that they were looking in a fruitless effort to see what time the church clock was pointing to.
"The clock has just struck a quarter to twelve," he informed them, "so you need not have the slightest doubt that the fateful hour has come. Now perhaps you understand what it was that my friend dreaded—nothing except that he might die just when the clock struck twelve on New Year's Eve, and that he might be compelled to become the ghastly driver I have told you about. All that day, I believe, he used to sit and imagine that he could hear, the death-cart creaking and rattling. And, mark you, gentlemen, the curious part of it is that he is said to have died last year on that very same New Year's Eve."
"Did he die immediately before the New Year was ushered in ? "
"All I know is that he died on New Year's Eve, but I've never found out the exact time. Well, well, I might have predicted that he would die at that very hour, because he sat worrying himself about it. If you two got that idea into your heads, likely enough the same fate would overtake you."
The two puny fellows, as if by mutual agreement, each clutched the neck of a bottle and took a long pull, after which they began slowly and awkwardly to stagger to their feet.
"But, friends, surely you would never dream of going your ways before the stroke, of midnight?" cried the narrator, when he saw that he had succeeded all too well in frightening them. " I can never really believe that you attach the least importance to such an old wife's story as.this. Bear in mind that my friend was rather a weakling—not like us, of good, sound old Swedish stock. Come now, will you take a drink and sit down again ? It will, I think, be just as we'll," he went on, when he had got them down on the grass, " for us to keep our seats. This is the first place where I've had a rest since morning. Everywhere else I was attacked by the Salvation Army people, who want me to go to Sister Edith, who, "so they say, is dying. But I made excuses. Nobody for choice would let himself in for such a beastly sermonising as I should get."
The two tramps, their brains clouded by their last heavy pull at the Schnapps bottle, both bounced up at hearing Sister Edith's name mentioned, and asked if she was the one who was managing the Slum Rescue in that town.
"Yes, right enough, she's the one! replied the younger man. "She has been honouring me with her special attentions all this year. I hope she isn't one of your intimate acquaintances, in which case your grief would be terrible." It was not unlikely that the two tramps retained , some "recollection of a kindness Sister Edith had shown them. " They asserted with dogged determination that, according to their view of the matter, if Sister Edith wanted to meet somebody, no matter who he or she might be, it was that person's plain duty to go to her at once.
"Ha! that's your opinion, is it ? " said their companion. " Well, I will go, if you, whose acquaintance with me is somewhat slight, can tell me what pleasure it would give Sister Edith to meet me."
Neither of the two vagabonds condescended to answer" his question; all they did was to insist on his taking himself off, and, when he repeatedly refused to do so and got irritated with them, they flew into such a violent rage as to declare that, if he would not go of his own accord, they would give him a sound thrashing. Thereupon they got on their feet and rolled up their coat-sleeves to attack him.
Their adversary, who was quite aware that he was the biggest and strongest man in the whole town, was moved with a sudden sympathy for the wretched weaklings.
"If you must needs have it that way," he cried. "of course I am ready whenever you please; but I venture to say that I think, gentlemen, that we might as well make up this quarrel, especially if you bear in mind what I have just told you."
The tipsy fellows hardly knew what had upset their tempers, but their lust for battle was whetted, and they hurled themselves on their companion with clenched fists. So confident-was he of his superiority that he did not trouble to stand up, but remained sitting on the ground.
