“Ah, I hope not,” said Augusta. “By-the-way, Mr. Bill, will you let me look at the tattoo on your arm?”
“Certainly, Miss,” said Bill, with alacrity, holding his great arm within an inch of her nose. It was covered with various tattoos: flags, ships, and what not, in the middle of which, written in small letters along the side of the forearm, was the sailor’s name—Bill Jones.
“Who did it, Mr. Bill?” asked Augusta.
“Who did it? Why I did it myself. A chap made me a bet that I could not tattoo my own name on my own arm, so I showed him; and a poor sort of hand I should have been at tattooing if I could not.”
Augusta said no more till Bill had gone on, then she spoke.
“Now, Mr. Meeson, do you see how you can make your will?” she said quietly.
“See? No.” he answered, “I don’t.”
“Well, I do: you can tattoo it—or, rather get the sailor to tattoo it. It need not be very long.”
“Tattoo it! What on, and what with?” he asked, astonished.
“You can have it tattooed on the back of the other sailor, Johnnie, if he will allow you; and as for material, you have some revolver cartridges; if the gunpowder is mixed with water, it would do, I should think.”