After mentioning a few trifling legacies to various comrades, Hardy said that he had managed to save a hundred pounds during his career, which he wished to divide between his two comrades, John Miles and Willie Armstrong, for whom he expressed strong regard.
Sutherland, instead of noting this down, looked at his friend in sad surprise, thinking that weakness had caused his mind to wander.
“Ye forget, serjint,” he said softly, “that Miles an’ Airmstrang are baith deed.”
“No, lad; no one can say they are certainly dead.”
“Aweel—we canna exactly say it, but when ye consider o’ the born deevils that have gotten haud o’ them, we are entitled to think them deed ony way.”
“They are reported as ‘missing,’ that is all, and that is enough for me. You write down what I tell you, lad. Now, have you got it down?”
“Ay, fifty to each.”
“There may be some interest due on the account,” said the sergeant thoughtfully; “besides, there may be a few things in my kit that I have forgotten—and it’s not worth while dividing such trifles between them.”
“Weel, weel, ye’ve only to mak yin o’ them yer residooary legitee, an’ that’ll pit it a’ richt.”
“True, my lawyer. Let it be so,” said Hardy, with a short laugh at the thought of making so much ado about nothing. “Make Miles my residuary legatee. And now, be off, draw it out fair, an’ leave me to rest, for I’m a trifle tired after all this legal work.”