“Not by a long sight you haven’t,” said Mr. Chisholm. “I want you to understand that I have been in this country long before you ever came out of a pettifogger’s office in the North. You can’t take that will away, and that’s all about it.”
“Here is Jerry Wolfe’s,” said the lawyer, taking from his safe a big bundle of papers all neatly endorsed as he had filed them away. “You knew him, didn’t you?”
“Well—yes; and a right smart business man he was. Did his guardeen leave his papers here?”
“His executor did, and that amounts to the same thing. And all those in there are wills.”
“That may be law, but it isn’t justice,” said Mr. Chisholm, putting up his revolver and stepping back; whereupon the men in his party, who held their pistols in their hands, let down the hammers and returned them to their cases. “Have you got done with us?”
“Yes, sir; we are all through.”
“Well, if you are right, I am sorry I pulled my revolver on you; if you are wrong, I’m sorry I didn’t use it. You see, I never had any experience before in proving wills, and I never want to have another, unless I can have someone at my back who knows more than I do.”
“I assure you, it is all right,” said the lawyer; and, to show that he was in earnest, he cordially shook hands with Mr. Chisholm. “You go down to the bank, and if Mr. Wallace doesn’t say that it is all right, I’ll make it so.”
I, for one, was glad to get out of reach of that surrogate’s office. There was too much pulling of revolvers to suit me. I fell in behind Mr. Chisholm, who led the way toward the bank.