Squire Phin leaned back and stared at the old man.
“Yess’r, a monnyment with my statoot on top and poetry about s’p’tu’lism carved around the bottom. I’ll show ’em that has scoffed and sneered that there is more to it than they thought.”
“But how do you prove anything by putting, say, ten thousand dollars into such infernal foolishness as that?” stormed the Squire.
“It will show that one man believed in it thirteen thousand dollars’ wuth—and that’s all he had and what he’d worked for all his life,” persisted the farmer, stubbornly. He stood up and cracked his fist on the table.
“Now, you can’t change my mind on that one jot or tittle, Squire Phin Look. You put it into any kind of lawyer lingo that will stick, and mind your own business.”
The Squire completed the writing without further comment, but his face was stern and he drove his pen into the inkstand with violent thrusts. Badger during the writing informed him that he wanted him to be one of the trustees. The lawyer paused and frowned at the old man as though he were intending to refuse, then inserted the name.
“And I want you to take these notes,” went on Badger, “and figger the interest up on ’em and put ’em in your safe and keep ’em.”
He passed across the table a dog’s-eared bank-book with a few papers between the leaves. The Squire examined them without particular interest. There were half a dozen for small amounts. But at sight of the last he sat up straighter, studied the document with increasing attention, turned it over and over, and then stared at Badger, arching his eyebrows.
“Where did you get hold of this town note?” he demanded.
“I lent good money for it. I got it right from the man whose name is signed at the bottom—and he’s been town treasurer of Palermo for thirty years. I reckon you know him!”