“Hush, Shadrach,” he faltered. “Don't be profane.”
“Profane! Pup-pup-profane! You set there and—and—Oh, jumpin', creepin' Judas! I—I—” Language—even his language—failed to express his feelings and he waved his fists and sputtered. Baxter seized the opportunity.
“Before you make your decision, gentlemen,” he said, “I hope you will consider the situation carefully. The girl is only seven years old; she has no relations anywhere, so far as we know. If you decline the trust a guardian will have to be appointed by the courts, I suppose. Who that guardian will be, or what will become of the poor child I'm sure I don't know. And Captain Marcellus was perfectly sane; he knew what he was doing.”
Shadrach interrupted.
“He did!” he shouted. “Well, then, I must say—”
“Just a minute, please, I have a letter here which he wrote at the time he made his will. It is addressed to both of you. Here it is. Shall I read it to you, or had you rather read it yourselves?”
Zoeth answered. “I guess maybe you'd better read it, Judge,” he said. “I don't cal'late Shadrach nor me are capable of readin' much of anything just this minute. You read it. Shadrach, you be still now and listen.”
The Captain opened his mouth and raised a hand. “Be still, Shadrach,” repeated Zoeth. The hand fell. Captain Gould sighed.
“All right, Zoeth,” he said. “I'll keep my batch closed long's I can. Heave ahead, Judge.”
The letter was a long one, covering several sheets of foolscap. It began: