Outing

Where Death stalked last week in Indiana, Wisconsin, Michigan and Illinois, he lacked his usual retinue. Gone from their mortuary parlors were the head morticians. They had entrusted to their apprentices and assistants the silk hats and sleek black coats which they, of all men, are sure to wear on weekdays. They, the master embalmers, had flocked in holiday host to the offices of the Chicago Casket Co. to discuss this whole business of snatching a living from the grave.

There were hearty handshakes, clammy as trout, warm as buns. Old friends wandered among the exhibits, admired the ultimate mode in funeral shoes, the suavest cuts in cemetery suitings, the 1926 coffins. They strolled off to dinner, exchanging views on the smoothing of an eyelid, the powdering of a nose, the arrangement of hands and what is the finest angle for a head to lie at.

Prof. Albert Worsham, a humble man and an artist in his way, mounted the platform. Beside him was his quieter colleague, a onetime Mexican, whose cooperation during the lecture was perfect.

"Put yourself in his place," murmured the Professor to the lethal lackeys crowding about the dais. "Yes, siree. That's my motto. ... So never let blood through the carotid artery [he caressed his colleagues throat] for then he looks as if he had been butchered. Whenever possible, do it through the auxiliary artery. [The colleague's armpit was indicated.] Yes, siree. Put yourself in his place. . . . When my experiments are completed, I'll have seven different kinds of cosmetic powders, one for every type of skin. That will make a corpse look realistic. That's the thing to do, put yourself in . . ." There was coffee to drink during the bloodletting and then there was rollicking song. Setting-up exercises imparted verve for more talk of autopsies. Not all the proceedings became known to the public. The newspaper reporters present, strange to say, early lost interest. Not so the morticians. To the end they enjoyed their outing.