"He's a mighty fine feller," cried Maurice enthusiastically.
"You're right, he is. Well, what's he goin' to do now? He can't work, kin he?"
"Gollies, no. I never thought—'
"Well, it's time you did think. Now you know that ol' Scroggie left him everythin' he owned, don't you?"
"'Course I do."
"Only he can't prove it, kin he?"
"No! Not without the will."
"Well, then?" Billy sat down on a corner of the table and eyed his friend reproachfully.
Maurice squirmed uneasily, then he said: "'Course, Bill, it's up to you an' me to find that will. But I'll be shot if I'd do what we'll have to do fer anybody else in the world but him."
"Say, here's a piece of news fer you," cried Billy. "We're goin' to get ol' Harry O'Dule to help us. He's the seventh son of a seventh son. We're goin' over to his cabin to see him tonight."