The undertaker regarded the deceased in the coffin with severe disapproval, for the wig persisted in slipping back and revealing a perfectly bald pate. He addressed the widow in that cheerfully melancholy tone which is characteristic of undertakers during their professional public performance.
"Have you any glue?"
The widow wiped her eyes perfunctorily, and said that she had.
"Shall I heat it?" she asked. The undertaker nodded gloomily, and the relic departed on her errand. Presently, she returned with the glue-pot.
But the undertaker shook his head, and regarded her with the gently sad smile to which undertakers are addicted, as he whispered solemnly:
"I found a tack."
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