Slowly and with great difficulty, for his understanding was none of the clearest, she explained to him what was required; and that it was suggested that he should provide the necessary _corpus vile_ upon which it was proposed that the experiment should be made. When at last he understood what it was asked that he should do, Johnnie’s countenance was a sight to see, and his language was more striking than correct. The upshot of it was, however, that he would see Mr. Meeson collectively, and Mr. Meeson’s various members separately, especially his eyes, somewhere first. Augusta retreated till his wrath had spent itself, and then once more returned to the charge. She was sure, she said, that Mr. Johnnie would not mind witnessing the document, if anybody else could be found to submit to the pain of the tattooing. All that would be necessary would be for him to touch the hand of the operator while his (Johnnie’s) name was tattooed as witness to the will. “Well,” he said, “I don’t know how as I mind doing that, since it’s you as asked me, Miss, and not the d——d old hulks of a Meeson. I would not lift a finger to save him from ‘ell Miss, and that’s a fact!” “Then that is a promise, Mr. Johnnie?” said Augusta, sweetly ignoring the garnishing with which the promise was adorned; and on Mr. Johnnie stating that he looked at it in that light, she returned to Mr. Meeson. On her way she met Bill, carrying in his hands a loathsome-looking fish, with long feelers and a head like a parrot, in short, a cuttle-fish. “Now, here’s luck, Miss,” said Bill, exultingly; “I saw this gentleman lying down on the beach there this morning. He’s a cuttle, that’s what he is; and I’ll have his ink-bag out of him in a brace of shakes; just the ticket for tattooing, Miss, as good as the best Indian-ink—gunpowder is a fool to it.” By this time they had reached Mr. Meeson, and here the whole matter, including Johnnie’s obstinate refusal to be tattooed was explained to Bill. “Well,” said Augusta at length, “it seems that’s the only thing to be done; but the question is, how to do it? I can only suggest, Mr. Meeson, that the will should be tattooed on you.” “Oh!” said Mr. Meeson, feebly, “on me! Me tattooed like a savage—tattooed with my own will!” “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.”