Never before had Whitey known what a subject for conversation funerals could make.

Little dwelled on the burial of each one of his immediate family, then passed on to his distant relatives, then to his friends, then to his acquaintances.

Whitey's nerves were pretty steady, as you know, but after about four hours of this, Little got him so fidgety that he thought he would fall off the horse.

Finally he thought Little had changed the subject, and breathed a sigh of relief.
"Drink's a awful evil," Little announced solemnly.

"They was a friend o' mine, one o' them two-handed drinkers, what was down to Bismarck, an' got in th' c'ndition what liquor perduces, an' this friend o' mine was standin' on th' sidewalk, an' 'long comes a funeral." "Here it is again!" muttered Whitey, with a groan.
"An' this friend o' mine," Little continued, "sees this here funeral, an' bein' in th' c'ndition he's in, he thinks it is a percession, an' he waves his hat an' cheers, an' he gets urrested." Little looked sternly at Whitey as though to drive the moral of this story home, and to warn him never to drink and cheer a funeral.