appendicitis, I did not mind swallowing all the grape sent with the enemy’s compliments, but I always did draw the line at the dentist’s chair, and any manipulator of the forceps would have struck a snag had he investigated my corpse too closely. Perhaps I ought not to complain, for it may be that if I keep my mouth shut I shall get a decent funeral, and unfortunately this is supposed to be my funeral.” [Pg 33] “But the proofs,” I remonstrated. “My dear fellow, it is easy to pile up proofs on a dead man, for he cannot rise up to refute them. Here is a dead body; Paul Jones is dead: therefore, this must be Paul Jones. That may be logic but it is not common-sense. Yet this text-book reasoning is no more absurd than the ‘proofs.’ First of all, there was the absence of a coffin plate; had the body been missing instead of the name it would have been more worthy of notice. An autopsy has revealed traces of the disease of which I died, and this after a hundred years! If they were as expert in diagnosing the living as they are in cutting up the dead, fewer of the mistakes of the doctors would have to be buried from sight and mind. Then these learned savants triumphantly point to the height as a sure proof that this is the body of Jones and not of Smith, though both families are so numerous[Pg 34] that the bones of one more or less doesn’t matter save as a museum exhibit—from which fate may the Stars and Stripes protect me! It seems from this deduction that I was the only person ever born into the world who ever attained to a stature of five feet and seven inches. That’s what a man gets for measuring up to the standard! The most remarkable coincidence of all is that neither uniform nor sword was found. Evidently Paris makes it a custom to bury its dead, civilian and officer alike, in a shroud of mystery, epaulets and gold stripes. [Pg 34] “Really, the only proof distilled is that the body was found floating in alcohol. I was so fond of that preservative in life, according to the historical novelists, that if a dead body can move of its own volition, I know mine would have sought out the alcohol. It may be the body of John Jones or John Smith, or it may be the remains of some Johnny Craupaud of a century ago; who knows? A slip of genealogy has lost thrones and made more than one man get off the earth.” “At least you must concede it is not often that many cities squabble over the honor of giving sepulture to a man’s remains.” “After a
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