"Make it all over to 'im," said Mrs. West; "all what I, the undersigned, may die possessed of. I won't 'ave 'is stuck-up sister touch a stick of it. 'E's bin a good boy to me, Bert 'as. It'll be a 'ome for 'im.
"It's bin a near touch for me, what, Doctor?" pursued the testator.
"Pooh!" murmured the doctor, still writing rapidly, "you're not going this time."
"I know that," said the woman. "Not as I take any notice what you say—you an' your soft soap. But I know in meself as it's all right this time. On'y you never know what's gointer 'appen with the next attack, do you, now? And it'll be a 'ome for the boy. 'E's gettin' good money at the dye works now. 'E'll be all right if 'e's got a 'ome. You ain't puttin' it so's she can touch a share, I 'ope, Doctor?"
"Who's she?"
"'Er what I spoke about—what calls 'erself my daughter. 'Er what's married into the perlice. 'Er what's ashamed of 'er own father!"
"I am putting it," explained the doctor, "so that you leave all of which you may die possessed to your son Albert. It's quite definite. You may sign now. This gentleman and myself will witness your signature."
"Lift me up, then," said Mrs. West.
She signed her name in a shaky but accomplished hand. "Be careful, young man," she admonished me, when my turn arrived.
All the formalities being concluded, Mrs. West sank back upon her pillow with a grunt of contentment. "It'll be a 'ome for the boy," she said. "And if 'is father should turn up——"