"It wouldn't be much use, either, governor, begging your pardon," said
Bill, "that is, if you are agoing to croak, as you say; 'cause where
would the will be then? We might skin you with a sharp stone, perhaps,
after you've done the trick, you know," he added reflectively. "But then
we have no salt, so I doubt if you'd keep; and if we set your hide in the
sun, I reckon the writing would shrivel up so that all the courts of law
in London could not make head or tail of it."

Mr. Meeson groaned loudly, as well he might. These frank remarks would
have been trying to any man; much more were they so to this opulent
merchant prince, who had always set the highest value on what Bill rudely
called his "hide."

"There's the infant," went on Bill, meditatively. "He's young and white,
and I fancy his top-crust would work wonderful easy; but you'd have to
hold him, for I expect that he'd yell proper."

"Yes," said Mr. Meeson; "let the will be tattooed upon the child. He'd be
some use that way."

"Yes," said Bill; "and there'd allus be something left to remind me of a
very queer time, provided he lives to get out of it, which is doubtful.
Cuttle-ink won't rub out, I'll warrant."

"I won't have Dick touched," said Augusta, indignantly. "It would
frighten the child into fits; and, besides, nobody has a right to mark
him for life in that way."

"Well, then, there's about an end of the question," said Bill; "and this