“Jethro,” repeated Mr. Jones, sort of surprised. “Why?”
“Oh, nothin’,” says Mark. “Kind of a f-f-funny name.”
“About the will,” says Mr. Jones, “I guess there’s nothing to prevent me from reading it to you. It’s sort of queer, like everything else that has happened since Mr. Wigglesworth died. I don’t know just what to do.”
“Will it d-d-do any harm if we p-print it?” says Mark.
Mr. Jones hesitated a moment, like lawyers always do, just for effect, I guess, then he said, “Wa-al, I dunno’s it would do any harm.”
“And it’ll do a h-h-heap of good,” says Mark, with a grin. “There’s a lot of curiosity itchin’ f-f-folks that readin’ what that will says will c-cure.”
“And that sells newspapers,” says Lawyer Jones. “Well, I’m glad to help you all I can.” So he went to his safe and came back with the will. We could understand it, all right, though for the life of me I can’t see why it wasn’t written out plain without so many “whereases” and “theretofores” and “devises,” and such like.
Anyhow, the gist of it was that Henry Wigglesworth claimed his mind was as good as new and that this was his regular will, and no other one was worth a cent. Then he said his debts had to be paid, which they would have had to be, whether he said it or not, I guess. Then he “gave, devised, and bequeathed,” whatever that means, all the “rest, residue, and remainder” of his property to “any heir or heirs in direct line of descent from myself, if such exist or can be found.”
All that meant, Lawyer Jones explained, was that he wanted his property to go to his sons or daughters, or his grandsons or granddaughters or great-grandsons or great-granddaughters, if he had any.
Then the will said if nobody could find any of these direct heirs the property was to go to George Gardener Grover, only son of Mr. Wigglesworth’s only sister. And there you are.