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"One morning something over a year ago a queer little man came to my office. He told me his name, Scroggie, but refused to give me any address. He said he wished to make his will and insisted that I draw it up. It was a simple will, as I remember it, merely stating that 'I something-or-other, Scroggie, hereby bequeath all my belongings, including land and money, to Frank Stanhope.' I made it out exactly as he worded it, had it sealed and witnessed and handed it to him. But the old fellow refused to take it. I asked him why, and he said: 'You keep it safe until I send for it. I'm willin' to pay for your trouble.' Just as the Admiral was cutting a second helping for himself from the round of beef, which being English was choicely tasted, he heard his son's footsteps in the passage outside, and after a short interval, during which Mr Lawrence fitted himself for the dinner table, that gentleman walked in. He was almost immediately followed by the old housekeeper with hot plates. She was very fond of Mr Lawrence. She would listen for his footsteps. He was still "Master Walter" with her, and would remain so. She had once, on hearing of his money troubles, offered to lend him from her slender savings. But whatever may have been his character he was a sailor in this: he would not take money from a woman. Billy found himself, face down, on the wet moss. Maurice was tugging at his arm. The stricken tree had burst into flame, beneath the ghostly light of which path, creek and pine-grove stood out clear-limned as a cameo against a velvet background. Billy noted this as he sat dazedly up. He and Maurice were alone; old Harry had vanished..
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O'Dule transferred the potatoes from the frying pan to a cracked plate. He sat down at the table and ate his supper without so much as another word. The boys watched him, fear in their hearts that the eccentric old Irishman would refuse their request. "But supposin' the will can't be found?" Billy looked the other boy in the face and waited for the answer. Old Harry O'Dule's dream was about to be realised, Stanhope had assured him that he would see to it that he should play his whistle beneath Ireland's skies before another autumn dawned. "Yep; but by jinks! I had a awful time guessin' what you meant by them marks you made on the paper. Darn it all, Bill, why can't you write what you want'a say, instead of makin' marks that nobody kin understan'?".
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