“What was it, Fulton? A midnight rabbit, or a wedge of mince pie not like mother used to make? Why, man alive, you’re barely over fifty, yet. Cheer up! It’s only a little matter of indigestion. There are a lot of good days and good dinners coming to you, yet.”
The millionaire made a wry face.
“Very likely—if I survive the biscuits. But, seriously, Ned, I’m in earnest. No, I don’t think I’m going to die—yet awhile. But I ran across young Bixby last night—got him home, in fact. Delivered him to his white-faced little wife. Talk about your maudlin idiots!”
“Yes, I know. Too bad, too bad!”
“Hm-m; well, that’s what one million did—inherited. It set me to thinking—of mine, when I get through with them.”
“I see.” The lawyer’s lips came together a little grimly. “You’ve not made your will, I believe.”
“No. Dreaded it, somehow. Funny how a man’ll fight shy of a little thing like that, isn’t it? And when we’re so mighty particular where it goes while we’re living!”
“Yes, I know; you’re not the only one. You have relatives—somewhere, I surmise.”
“Nothing nearer than cousins, third or fourth, back East. They’d get it, I suppose—without a will.”
“Why don’t you marry?”