"I—I'm no lawyer," said the faint voice, "but I think it's all—in shape. Anyhow—you write—and I'll sign." He half closed his eyes, and the paper slipped from under his hand. The Boy caught it, and set down the faint words:—"will and bequeath to John M. Berg, Kansas City, my right and title to claim No. 11 Above, Little Minóok, Yukon Ramparts—"
And the voice fell away into silence. They waited a moment, and the Superior whispered:
"Can you sign it?"
The dull eyes opened. "Didn't I—?"
Father Brachet held him up; the Boy gave him the pen and steadied the paper. "Thank you, Father. Obliged to you, too." He turned his dimming eyes upon the Boy, who wrote his name in witness. "You—going to Minóok?"
"I hope so."
The Father went to the writing-table, where he tied up and sealed the packet.
"Anybody that's going to Minóok will have to hustle." The slang of everyday energy sounded strangely from dying lips—almost a whisper, and yet like a far-off bugle calling a captive to battle.
The Boy leaned down to catch the words, yet fainter:
"Good claims going like hot cakes."