“Write down,” said he, “that I leave one thousand pounds to you, for having saved my life.”
I hesitated and looked at him, and then said, “My dear friend, I thank you, but you have put enough in my way.”
“Write it down, write it down,” he cried. I wrote as he dictated. “Now,” said he, “can I sign?” and he lifted his hand as though feeling for strength to control a pen.
I opened the door and called to Jimmy, who was putting wine and biscuit on the table. I asked the lad if he could write. He answered, “No.” I put a pen into Greaves’ hand, and he scratched his signature under the three clauses I had written down. His vision was dim, and he saw with difficulty when it came to his writing, but on my directing the point of the pen in his hand to the paper he wrote with some vigor. I bade Jimmy take notice of what I was about to read, and when I had read I signed my name, and the lad made his mark, which I witnessed.
All this was very innocent. I was a sailor, with no more knowledge of the law than a ship’s figurehead, and little dreamed that I was rendering my interest in poor Greaves’ will worthless by attesting it. But, as things turned out, it mattered nothing, as you shall read.
Jimmy went into the cabin to wait on the lady.
“Will you, or shall I keep this will?” said I.
“You,” he answered. “I give you Galloon,” said he after a pause, and now speaking with the faintness I had observed in him when I first arrived. “You’ll love him, Fielding.”
I put my cheek to the dog’s face. “I am glad to have your wishes,” said I. “Should you be taken before we get home I shall know what to do, if I outlive you.” He feebly smiled.
“Oh, but the risks of the sea are many—we know that. A man goes with his life in one hand. You are far from dead yet. It is I who may be the dying man.”