“You ain't never robbed nobody in Happy Valley,” said the judge a little grimly, and the Pope chuckled.
“No, you wouldn't let me. I got all my money from 'em an' do you know what I'm goin' to do?”
“Git some more, I reckon.”
The Pope chuckled again: “I'm a-goin' to give it back to 'em. Churches, schools, libraries, hospitals, good roads—any durned thing in the world that will do 'em any good. It's all in my will. An', judge,” he added with a little embarrassment, “I've sort o' fixed it so that when you want to help out a widder or a orphan in Happy Valley you can do it without always diggin' down into yo' own jeans.”
“Shucks, don't you worry about me or the folks in Happy Valley—you done enough fer them lettin' 'em alone; an' that durned ole Bill Maddox, he's a fightin' you right now afore yo' face an' behind yo' back. He's the meanest——”
“Makes no difference. His children ain't to blame an' thar's Sally Ann.” The Pope yawned and his brow wrinkled with pain. “I better take a little more sleep, judge.” A doctor came in and felt the Pope's pulse and the judge left the room worried by the physician's face and his whispered direction to the nurse to summon another doctor.
An hour later the Pope called him back, and his voice was weak:
“Bring in every telegram, judge.”
“You mustn't bother,” interposed the doctor firmly, and the Pope's mouth set and the old dominant gleam came into his eyes.