Slowly through the loop the procession picked its way. Crowds of people
paused to stare back at the staring ones in the automobiles and to listen
to the--fine music that rose above the clamor of the "L" trains and the
street cars and the trucks.
The sun lay over the cemetery. The handsome black coffin went out of
sight. The fifteen musicians began to play once more and Mrs. Sikora,
weeping anew, allowed solicitous arms to help her back into the limousine
and with a sigh she leaned back and closed her eyes and let herself weep
while the music played, while the limousine rolled smoothly along. It was
like a dream, a strange thing imagined or read about somewhere.
* * * * *
The neighbors sniffed indignantly. "Did you hear about Mrs. Sikora?" they
said. These were the same ones who had leaned enviously out of the
Wabansia Avenue windows.
"She spent all her insurance money on a crazy funeral," the neighbors
said, "and did you hear about it? The Juvenile Court is going to take her
children away because she can't support them. The officer was out to see
her yesterday and she's got no money to pay her bills. She spent the whole
money--it was something like $2,000--on the funeral.
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