yin' in court; and he said--"Now we're on the
Mississippi--how fast the boat goes--don't row so fast." But always he'd
come to and say, "Where's my pa?"

And after a bit there was a stir--Mr. Miller came--pushed his way
through. He was pale as ashes, all trembling, out of breath, for he'd
run up the hill. And he came to the bedside, but Mitch was dreaming
again, drifting and dreaming, and talking about boats, about money,
about Hamlet, about treasure, about pale kings and warriors and
death-pale princes. But pretty soon he says, "Where's my pa? Is he never
comin'?"

"I'm here," said Mr. Miller.

Mitch opened his eyes and looked at his father for about a minute and
saw his pa had come. He was pretty weak now and it was hard for him to
speak. But finally he said, "Take my hand--pa." And Mr. Miller took it.
And then nothin' was said for a while. And then Mitch spoke
again--"Forgive me, pa." And Mr. Miller, who was tryin' to keep from
cryin' so as not to worry Mitch, says, "Oh yes, Mitchie." And then Mitch
says: "Say a little prayer, pa." And Mr. Miller knelt by the bed to say
a prayer, and Mitch says--"Not out loud--just to yourself."

So Mr. Miller did, and then Mitch wandered again and he says, "Don't row
so fast." Then there was a terrible stillness. Mitch had died with them
words.

And my friend--my chum, was gone for good.

CHAPTER XXX

And then there was the funeral. It was held at Mr. Miller's house and
everybody was there; my grandpa, my grandma, my uncle, John Armstrong
and Aunt Caroline, Willie Wallace, Colonel Lambkin, Nigger Dick, Dinah,
my ma and Myrtle, all the Sunday School children, and George Montgomery.
Only Charley King and George Heigold wasn't there. They were afraid,
bein' partly responsible for Mitch's death. And when everybody was
seated and ready, Zueline and her ma came. They was all dressed up, and
everybody looked at 'em. Mr. Miller, of course, couldn't preach the
sermon for his own boy; so they sent for a wonderful preacher over at
Jacksonville and he talked for about an hour about pearly gates and the
golden streets of Paradise; and there was Mitch lyin' there, pale, his
eyes sealed, just asleep, but in such a deep, breathless sleep. And they
had the church choir there which sang. And one of the songs they sang
was:

I will sing you a song of that beautiful land,
Of the far away home of the soul,
Where no storms ever beat on that glittering strand,
While