but tomorrow we want _all_ to come--everybody; for he respected everybody, he liked everybody, and so it's fitten that his funeral orgies sh'd be public.” And so he went a-mooning on and on, liking to hear himself talk, and every little while he fetched in his funeral orgies again, till the duke he couldn't stand it no more; so he writes on a little scrap of paper, “_Obsequies_, you old fool,” and folds it up, and goes to goo-gooing and reaching it over people's heads to him.  The king he reads it and puts it in his pocket, and says: “Poor William, afflicted as he is, his _heart's_ aluz right.  Asks me to invite everybody to come to the funeral--wants me to make 'em all welcome.  But he needn't a worried--it was jest what I was at.” Then he weaves along again, perfectly ca'm, and goes to dropping in his funeral orgies again every now and then, just like he done before.  And when he done it the third time he says: “I say orgies, not because it's the common term, because it ain't--obsequies bein' the common term--but because orgies is the right term. Obsequies ain't used in England no more now--it's gone out.  We say orgies now in England.  Orgies is better, because it means the thing you're after more exact.  It's a word that's made up out'n the Greek _orgo_, outside, open, abroad; and the Hebrew _jeesum_, to plant, cover up; hence in_ter._  So, you see, funeral orgies is an open er public funeral.” He was the _worst_ I ever struck.  Well, the iron-jawed man he laughed right in his face.  Everybody was shocked.  Everybody says, “Why, _doctor_!” and Abner Shackleford says: “Why, Robinson, hain't you heard the news?  This is Harvey Wilks.” The king he smiled eager, and shoved out his flapper, and says: “Is it my poor brother's dear good friend and physician?  I--” “Keep your hands off of me!” says the doctor. “_You_ talk like an Englishman, _don't_ you?  It's the worst imitation I ever heard.  _You_ Peter Wilks's brother!  You're a fraud, that's what you are