head of the coffin, and for a half an hour the people filed around slow, in single rank, and looked down at the dead man's face a minute, and some dropped in a tear, and it was all very still and solemn, only the girls and the beats holding handkerchiefs to their eyes and keeping their heads bent, and sobbing a little.  There warn't no other sound but the sc**** of the feet on the floor and blowing noses--because people always blows them more at a funeral than they do at other places except church. When the place was packed full the undertaker he slid around in his black gloves with his softy soothering ways, putting on the last touches, and getting people and things all ship-shape and comfortable, and making no more sound than a cat.  He never spoke; he moved people around, he squeezed in late ones, he opened up p****ageways, and done it with nods, and signs with his hands.  Then he took his place over against the wall. He was the softest, glidingest, stealthiest man I ever see; and