There was a Mr.
Warmdollar, who in an earlier hour had held through two terms a seat in Congress.

This was years before.

Failing of a second re-election, and having become fixed in the habit of officeholding, which habit seizes upon certain natures like a taste for opium, Mr.Warmdollar urged his claims for some appointive place.

The Senators from his home-State felt compelled to moderately bestir themselves, the result of their joint efforts being that Mr.Warmdollar was tendered a position as guard about the congressional cemetery, said last resting-place of greatness-gone-to-sleep being a wild, weird tract in a semi-farmerish region on the fringe of town.

Mr.Warmdollar objected to the place, and the gloomy kind of its duties; but since this was before Mrs.Warmdollar had begun to earn a salary as scrubwoman, he was driven to accept.
"Take it until something better turns up," urged one of the Senators, who had grown tired of having Mr.Warmdollar on his hands.
It was a blustering night of rain when Mr.Warmdollar entered upon his initial vigil as a guardian of the dead.