It was a night letter, and glancing at the signature Cleggett saw
that it was from his brother who lived in Boston. It ran:

Uncle Tom died yesterday. Don't faint now.
He splits bulk fortune between you and me.
Lawyers figure nearly $500,000 each. Mostly
easily negotiable securities. New will made
month ago while sore at president temperance
outfit. Blood thicker than Apollinaris after all.
Poor Uncle Tom.

Edward.

Despite Edward's thoughtful warning, Cleggett did nearly faint.
Nothing could have been less expected. Uncle Tom was an
irascible prohibitionist, and one of the most deliberately
disobliging men on earth. Cleggett and his brother had long
ceased to expect anything from him. For twenty years it had been
thoroughly understood that Uncle Tom would leave his entire
estate to a temperance society. Cleggett had ceased to think of
Uncle Tom as a possible factor in his life. He did not doubt
that Uncle Tom had changed the will to gain some point with the
officials of the temperance society, intending to change it once
again after he had been deferred to, cajoled, and flattered
enough to placate his vanity. But death had stepped in just in
time to disinherit the enemies of the Demon Rum.

Cleggett read the wire through twice, and then folded it and put
it into his pocket. He rose and walked toward the managing