Fantastic Adventures January 1942 by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Pulp
Publisher: Ziff-Davis
Published: 1941-12-31T23:00:00+00:00

P IN the loft, the organist was giving out with majestically mournful rendition of the Funeral March, and up the middle of the church, escorted by cutaway-clad pallbearers, came my casket!

I could see the side-front pews. They were filled with a number of weeping, aged women. I couldn’t recall ever having seen them before in my life. And I say life without meaning a pun.

A small, clerically garbed, white-haired minister stood at the front railing in the church, looking sad and righteous as the procession moved slowly along to the strains of the majestic organ.

I could see the faces of the pallbearers now. There was Wiffy Skene, my handball partner from the City Club. Wiffy looked very sad, and I could understand this inasmuch as we were to have played in the finals of the doubles championship four days hence. Behind Wiffy, also guiding the casket along with solemn sorrow, was big, blond Brad Noddinger. It was hard to understand why Brad looked so sad. He’d owed me over a thousand dollars in poker debts. He wouldn’t have to pay them now.

The other pallbearers, of course, were also quite familiar to me. Some were good eggs, others—two at any rate—I thoroughly despised.

Then there was a small, mourning-clad group following the pallbearers. Most of their heads were bent, but I could make out the identities well enough.

Jo, of course, was the first to attract my attention. There was a momentary sharp, aching tug at my heart when she raised her head for an instant. She wore a black veil, and her face was white and determined beneath it. I wanted to run down the aisle, to put my arm around her and say, “Look, honey. Everything’s going to be all right. Give me a smile, huh?”

She held her uncle’s arm. He was a white-haired, red-faced old boy. Not a bad fellow. He looked sorrowful, and I couldn’t tell if it was because of me, or merely clue to the strain Jo was under.

On the other side of Jo, guiding her along, was a tall, black-haired, sharp-nosed chap named Duane Pearson. Pearson was a fraud, a phony, a louse. In short, I’d never liked him. He cheated at golf and snarled at his caddies. He was looking for a fortune to stick his paws to.

I had always suspected that he had a fondness for Jo.

Even though I’d like to have climbed from my pulpit perch and punched him on the nose, I stayed where I was. Gentlemen don’t make scenes at their own funerals.

T

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