The paralysed man made an effort to extend his arm.
'That is brave. You can use your fingers. What say you to writing your wishes? But, understand, mate, you must say first where your money is, and then, in due course, how you would dispose of it. I will bring you a slate; there is one hanging there by the chimney-breast, I will hold it before you, and you shall scribble thereon what you like. I ask for no copyhand. Rely on me. I can keep counsel.'
He brought the slate, and, seating himself on the bed, placed the pencil that was attached to the slate in the sick man's hand.
Captain Rattenbury had his faculties now, he clearly comprehended what was desired of him, and he made an effort to respond. He held the pencil awkwardly between his fingers, and began to write.
'That is fine,' said Olver. 'I can read that. I, capital I. Go along, governor.'
Again the pencil moved.
'Yes—right enough, F. What comes next?—So it is, an E.'
The sick man paused. The pencil had slipped between the wrong fingers, and required readjusting. Dench placed it again between thumb and forefinger.
Jane looked on uneasily.
'Right, old mate, an A. What follows FEA?—So! an R. You fear! Come, now, what do you fear? Is it Death?'