"A surplus," explained Amarilly, scornful of such avowed ignorance, "is
the white gown that Episcopal ministers wear."
"No; we don't keep them," was the impatient rejoinder.
"Well, I hev one," she said, addressing the proprietor this time, "a
real minister's, and I'll rent it to you to put on your figger of the
minister in your wedding window. He'll hev to wear one."
"I am not an Episcopalian," said the proprietor hesitatingly. "What do
you think, Ben?"
"Well, it hadn't occurred to me to have an Episcopal wedding, but I
don't know but what it would work out well, after all. It would make it
attract notice more, and women are always daffy over Episcopal weddings.
They like classy things. We could put a card in the window, saying all
the clergy bought the linen for their surplices here. How," turning to
Amarilly, "did you happen to have such an article?"
"We do the washin' fer St. Mark's church, and the minister give us one
of his surpluses."
"The display will be in for six days. What will you rent it for that
long?"
"I allers git a dollar a night fer it," replied Amarilly.
"Too much!" declared the clerk. "I'll give you fifty cents a day."
"I'll let it go six days fer four dollars," bargained Amarilly.
"Well, seeing you have come down on your offer, I'll come up a little on
mine. I'll take it for three-fifty."
Amarilly considered.
"I will, if you'll throw in one of them caps fer my brother."
"All right," laughed the proprietor. "I think we'll call it a bargain.
See if you can't dig up one of those caps for her, Ben."
Without much difficulty Ben produced a cap, and Amarilly hurried home
for the surplice. She went down to the Beehive every day during the
wedding-window week and feasted her eyes on the beloved gown. She took
all the glory of the success of the display to her own credit, and her
feelings were very much like those of the writer of a play on a first
night.
From a wedding to a funeral was the natural evolution of a surplice, but
this time it did not appear in its customary role. Instead of adorning a
minister, it clad the corpse. Mrs. Hudgers's only son, a scalawag, who
had been a constant drain on his mother's small stipend, was taken ill
and died, to the discreetly disguised relief of the neighborhood.