Clearly, Fifi left behind many sorrowful friends, as shown by her remarkable funeral.  If he himself were to die, Tim and Murphy Queed would probably feel sorrowful, but they would hardly come to the funeral.  For one thing, Tim could not come because of his duties on the force, and Murphy, for all he knew, was undergoing incarceration.  About the only person he could think of as a probable attendant at his graveside was William Klinker.  Yes, Buck would certainly be there, though it was asking a good deal to expect him to weep.  A funeral consisting of only one person would look rather odd to those who were familiar with such crowded churches as that he had seen to-day.  People passing by would nudge each other and say that the dead must have led an eccentric life, indeed, to be so alone at the end....  Come to think of it, though, there wouldn’t be any funeral.  He had nothing to do with those most interesting but clearly barbaric rites.  Of course his body would be cremated by directions in the will.  The operation would be private, attracting no attention from anybody.  Buck would make the arrangements.  He tried to picture Buck weeping near the incinerator, and failed.

Then there was his father, whom, in twenty-four years’ sharing of the world together, he had never met.  The man’s behavior was odd, to say the least.  From the world’s point of view he had declined to own his son.  For such an unusual breach of custom, there must be some adequate explanation, and the circumstances all pointed one way.  This was that his mother (whom his boyhood had pictured as a woman of distinction who had eloped with somebody far beneath her) had failed to marry his father.  The persistent mystery about his birth had always made him skeptical of Tim’s statement that he had been present at the marriage.  But he rarely thought of the matter at all now.  The moral responsibility was none of his; and as for a name, Queed was as good as any other.  X or Y was a good enough name for a real man, whose life could demonstrate his utter independence of the labels so carefully pasted upon him by environment and circumstance.

Still, if he were to die, he felt that his father, if yet alive, should come forward and weep for him, even as Mrs. Paynter was weeping for Fifi down in the Second Front.  He should stand out like a man and take from Buck’s hand the solemn ceremonies of cremation.  He tried to picture his father weeping near the incinerator, and failed, partly owing to the mistiness surrounding that gentleman’s bodily appearance.  He felt that his father was dodging his just responsibilities.  For the first time in his life he perceived that, under certain circumstances, it might be an advantage to have some definite individual to whom you can point and say:  “There goes my father.”

As it was, it all came down to him and Buck.  He and Buck were alone in the world together.  He rather clung to the thought of Buck, and instantly caught himself at it.  Very well; let him take it that way then.  Take Buck as a symbol of the world, of those friendships which played such certain havoc with a man’s Schedule.  Was he glad that he had Buck or was he not?