The beneficiary rose to his feet, seeming not to see the hand the old Judge had extended across the desktop toward him. On his face, of a sudden, was a queer, eager look. It was as though he foresaw the coming true of long-cherished and heretofore unattainable visions.
"Have you got it here, suh?"
He glanced about him as though expecting to see a bulky bundle. Judge Priest smiled.
"Oh, no; they didn't send it along with the letter—that wouldn't be regular. There's quite a lot of things to be done fust. There'll be some proofs to be got up and sworn to before a man called a British consul; and likely there'll be a lot of papers that you'll have to sign; and then all the papers and the proofs and things will be sent acrost the ocean. And, after some fees are paid out over there—why, then you'll git your inheritance."
The rapt look faded from the strained face, leaving it downcast. "I'm afeared, then, I won't be able to claim that there money," he said forlornly.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know how to sign my own name. Raised the way I was, I never got no book learnin'. I can't neither read nor write."
Compassion shadowed the Judge's chubby face; and compassion was in his voice as he made answer:
"You don't need to worry about that part of it. You can make your mark—just a cross mark on the paper, with witnesses present—like this."
He took up a pen, dipped it in the ink-well and illustrated his meaning.