“I have nearly a thousand in the bank. Keep half as working capital, give a hundred to my company in the Territorials, and divide the balance, according to salary, among all my servants who have more than five years’ service. And—Betsy is to have the use of the house and furniture, if she wishes it.”
“Anything else?”
Pickering was exhausted, but continued to laugh weakly.
“Yes; I had almost forgotten. I bequeath to John Bolland the shorthorn cow he sold me, and to that lad of his—you must find out his proper name—my pair of hammerless guns and my sword. He frames to be a sportsman, and I think he’ll make a soldier. He picked up a poker like a shot the other day when I quarreled with old John.”
“What was the quarrel about?”
“When you send back the cow, you’ll be told.”
Mr. Stockwell scanned his notes rapidly.
“I’ll put my clerks to work at this to-night,” he said. “As I am a trustee, my partner will attend to-morrow to get your signature. Of course, you know you must be married before you make your will, or it will be invalid? Before I go, George, are you sure it is all over with you?”
“MacGregor says so. I suppose he knows.”
“Yes, he knows, if any man does. Yet I can’t believe it. It seems monstrous, incredible.”