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: I'm sorry, friend, but there'll be no funeral. Henry
: What? Chamlee
: Oh, the grave is dug and the defunct there is as ready as the embalmers ought to make him. But there'll be no funeral. Henry
: What's the matter? Didn't I pay enough? Chamlee
: It's not a question of money. For twenty dollars, I'd plant anybody with a hoop and a holler. But the funeral is off. Henry
: Now how do you like that. I want him buried, you want him buried and if he could sit up and talk, he'd second the motion. Now that's as unanimous as you can get.
: There's an element in town that objects. Henry
: Objects? Objects to what? Chamlee
: They say he isn't fit to be buried there. Robert
: What? In Boot Hill? Henry
: Why, there's nothing up there but murderous cutthroats and derelict old barflies, and if they ever felt exclusive brother, they're past it now.
: I don't like it, no sir. I've always treated every man the same: just as another, future customer. Henry
: Well in that case, get that hearse rolling. Chamlee
: I can't, my driver's quit! Robert
: He's prejudiced too, huh? Chamlee
: Well, when it comes to a chance of getting his head blown off, he's downright bigoted.
: Well I'll be damned. I never knew you had to be anything but a corpse to get into Boot Hill. How long's this been going? Chamlee
: Since the town got civilized.