“The will?” said the lawyer. “As soon as you go away I shall lock it up. Then it will be safe.”
“You will, eh?”
In an instant his revolver was out and covering the lawyer’s head. The other men sprang to their feet, but before they could make a move they were held in check by four revolvers held in the hands of our own party.
“I have just about submitted to all the nonsense I can stand with regard to this will,” said Mr. Chisholm, in stern tones. “You made me sign it as a guardeen when I aint got no business to, and now you want to go and take the will away from us. Hand over that document! One—two——”
Probating the Will.
“There it is, and you can take it,” said the lawyer, turning white. “But I tell you it won’t amount to anything as long as you have it in your hands. There’s the notice of probate. You can take that down to the bank with you, and that is all you want.”
“He is right, Mr. Chisholm,” said Bob, who seemed to keep all his wits about him.
“Has he a right to take the will away from us?” demanded Mr. Chisholm, in a stentorian voice.
“I have got wills here that were left by parties long before you ever came to this country,” said the lawyer, turning to his safe.