“You do it, my good friend Chewkle—you take the pen and write over it,” gasped Grahame, convulsively.
“Oh, no, I beg your pardon, I think I’ve done a good deal. The winnings will be yourn, and yourn must be the venter.”
“But my hand trembles so.”
“Well, ring for a little brandy—that will put you to rights.”
“No, no, I cannot do it!”
“Very good. You know the konsequences o’ not doin’ it best, you know.”
“Give me the pen!”
“That’s it—mind, gently does it!” advised Mr. Chewkle. “’Old your pen ’ard with your thum’ and press it against your middle finger top, and then you’ll mark it firmly. Steady she goes—that’s it—beautiful! Dot that hi—l, t, o, n—good! Now for that little bit o’ flourish—that’s it—it’s done, an’ capitally you’ve done the FORGERY!”
Mr. Grahame uttered a groan, and sank back in his chair. Mr. Chewkle caught him with a sudden grip by the wrist.
“It is a dreadful secret I have of yourn,” he growled, “let me ’int to you that you’ll have to be generous to me to make me keep it dark.”