"SAY, TIM, YOU HAIN'T ANY IDEA OF GOING TO COLLEGE, HAVE YOU?"
"I won't unless ye will go wid me. How does that strike ye?"
Jeff's shoulders bobbed up and down with silent laughter, and immediately he became serious again.
"As soon as you sign this paper, Tim, I shall give you a certified check for seventy-five thousand dollars on the Bank of Californy. Are you ready to sign?"
"I'll sign me own death warrant for that trifle," replied Tim, his rosy face aglow, as he caught up the pen.
"Read it first."
His friend read:
"I, Timothy McCabe, hereby pledge my sacred honor not to taste a drop of malt or spirituous liquor, even on the advice of a physician who may declare it necessary to save my life, from the date of the signing of this pledge until the Fourth of July, one thousand nine hundred and seven."
As Tim gathered the meaning of the words on the paper, his eyes expanded; he puckered his lips and emitted a low whistle.
"Do ye mind," he said, looking across the table with his old quizzical expression, "the remark that the governor of North Carliny made to the governor of South Carliny?"