"
A week thereafter old Tommy gazed proudly upon the finished inscription.
"Died November 11, 1890," was the newest bit of biography there engraved.
"But it's two years and more till November 11, 1890," said a voice at his
side.
Tommy merely cast an indifferent look upon the speaker and walked off
without a word.
The whole village now thought that Tommy had become a monomaniac upon the
subject of his tombstone. Perhaps he had. No one has been able to learn
from his friend, Billy Skidmore, what thoughts he may have communicated to
the latter upon the matter.
Tommy now lived for no other apparent purpose than to visit his tombstone
daily. He no longer confined his walks thither to the pleasant days. He
went in weather most perilous to so old and frail a man.
One of his prospective heirs took sufficient interest in him to advise more
care of his health.
"I can easily keep alive till the time comes," returned the antique;
"there's only a year left."
Rapidly his hold upon life relaxed. A week before November 11, 1890, he
went to bed and stayed there. People began to speculate as to whether his
unique prediction--or I should say, his decree--would be fulfilled to the
very day.
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