Simon Basset's writing lore was limited, being, many claimed, confined to the ability to sign his name, and even that seemed likely in this case to fail him. Simon Basset faltered as if he had forgotten either his name or his spelling, and it was truly a strange signature when done, full of sharp slants of rebellion and curves of indecision. As for Doctor Seth Prescott, who had sat aloof, with a fine withdrawn majesty, all through the discussion, when it was signified to him that everything was in readiness for his signature he arose, went to the desk amid a hush of attention, and signed his name in characters like the finest copper-plate. Then he went out of the store without a word, and the minister, forgetting his quarter of tea, slid after him as noiselessly as his shadow.
Lawyer Means, when once out in the frosty night with his three mates, bound at last for cards and punch, shook his long sides with husky merriment. “I tell you,” he said, “if I were worth enough, I'd give every dollar of the twenty-five thousand to that boy before morning, just for the sake of seeing Prescott and Basset.”
“Of course, when it comes to a question of legality, that document isn't worth the paper it's written on,” the Colonel said, chuckling.
“Of course,” replied the lawyer, dryly. “Basset didn't know it, though, nor Jerome, nor scarcely a soul in the store beside.”
“Doctor Prescott did.”
“I suppose so, or he wouldn't have signed.”
“Do you think the boy would live up to his part of the bargain?” asked the Colonel, who, being somewhat gouty of late years, limped slightly on the frozen ground.
“I'd stake every cent I've got in the world on it,” cried Squire Eben Merritt, striding ahead—“every cent, sir!”
“Well, there's no chance of his being put to the test,” said Lamson.
“Chance!” exclaimed the lawyer. “Good heavens! You might as well talk of his chance of inheriting the throne of the Cæsars. I know the Edwards family, and I know Jerome's mother's family, root and branch, and there isn't five thousand dollars among them down to the sixth cousins; and as for the boy's accumulating it himself—where are the twenty-five thousand dollars in these parts for him to accumulate in ten years? You might as well talk of his discovering a gold-mine in that famous wood-lot. But I'll be damned if Basset wasn't as much scared as if the poor fellow had been jingling the gold in his pocket. If Jerome Edwards does, through the Lord or the devil, get twenty-five thousand dollars, I hope I shall be alive to see the fun.”