“Ferguson,” began Bill, rather shyly, when they had seated themselves, “I suppose you know enough of law, by this time, to draw up a paper.”
“Yes, I suppose so; or draw it down, either,” I replied. But I saw at once that my flippancy did not suit the occasion, for the two young fellows glanced at each other very seriously and seemed embarrassed. “What do you want me to do?” I asked.
Silverthorn now spoke, in his soft light inexperienced voice, which possessed a singular charm.
“It’s all Bill’s idea,” said he, rather carelessly. “I would much rather have the understanding in words, but he—”
“Yes,” broke in Bill, growing suddenly red and vehement, “I’m not going to have it a thing that can be forgotten. No one knows what might happen.”
“Well, well,” said I, “if I’m to help you, you’d better fire away and tell me what it is you’re after.”
“I will,” returned Vibbard, with a touch of that fierceness which marked his resolute moods. “Thorny and I have agreed to stand by each other when we quit college. Men are always forming friendships in the beginning of life, and then getting dragged apart by circumstances, such as wide separation and different interests. We don’t want this to happen, and so we’ve made a compact that whichever one of us, Thorny or me, shall be worth thirty thousand dollars first,—why that one is to give the other half. That is, unless the second one is already well enough off, so that to give him a full half would put him ahead of whichever has the thirty thousand. D’you see?”
“The idea is to keep even as long as we can, you know,” said Silverthorn, turning from one of my books which he had begun to glance through, and looking into my eyes with a delighted, straightforward gaze.
“That’s a very curious notion!” said I, revolving the plan with a caution born of legal readings. “Before we go on, would you mind telling me which one of you originated this scheme?”