The Mayor laid his finger on the signature. Again the gentlemen laughed.
"What is it, a marriage contract, or your last will and testament?" said one, delighted with his own wit.
"It is my last will and testament," answered the Mayor, quietly.
Again the men laughed; they did not believe him.
"Well, well, give us hold here, at any rate, we know it's all right, so here goes!"
They signed their names and went out laughing. The next morning they started South without seeing their host, and with a confused sense of what they had signed over night.
But with all these sources of agitation the Mayor was breaking down. He went up to his bed-room after signing the will, greatly exhausted. His wife passed through the room an hour after, and saw the document on the table. It was late, and she resolved to read it over at leisure in the morning before her husband was up; so dropping it quietly into her pocket she went up stairs.
Three days after the city was in mourning. The public building and military banners were all draped with black. It was the first time in years that a Mayor of New York had died in office, and the people were lavish of funereal honors to Farnham's memory.