He was used to lawyers. He had had every variety, and had divided them into two distinct classes--they were either rogues or fools. There was no intermediate stage with this old man, and he had no doubt in his mind that Jack Frankfort, a shrewd-looking young man, was to be classed in the former category. He bullied him into a seat. “I want to see you about my will,” he said. “I have been seriously thinking lately of rearranging the distribution of my property.” This was his invariable formula. It was intended to convey the impression that he had arrived at this present state of mind after very long and careful consideration, and that the making of wills was a serious and an important business to be undertaken, perhaps, once or twice in a man’s lifetime. Jack nodded. “Very good, General,” he said. “Have you a draft?” “I have no draft,” snapped the other. “I have a will which has already been prepared, and here is a copy.” He threw it across to his solicitor. “I do not know whether you have seen this?” “I think I have one in my bag,” said Jack. “What the devil do you mean by carrying my will about in your bag?” snarled the other. “That is the only place I could think of,” said the young man, calmly. “You would not like me to carry it about in my trouser’s pocket, would you?” The General stared. “Do not be impertinent, young man,” he said ominously. It was not a good beginning, but Jack knew that every method had been tried, from the sycophantic to the pompous, but none had succeeded, and the end of all endeavours, so far as the solicitors were concerned, had been the closing of their association with the General’s estate. He was rather a valuable client if he could only be retained. No human solicitor had discovered a method of retaining him. “Very well,” said the General at last. “Now please jot down exactly what my wishes are, and have the will drafted accordingly. In the first place, I revoke all former wills.” Jack, with a sheet of paper and a pencil, nodded and noted the fact. “In the second place I want you to make absolutely certain that not a penny of my money goes to Dr. Sundle’s Dogs’ Home. The man has been insolent to me, and I hate dogs, anyhow. Not a penny of my money is to go to any hospital or to any charitable institution whatever.” The old sinner declaimed this with relish. “I had intended leaving a very large sum of money to a hospital fund,” he explained, “but after the behaviour of this infernal Government----” Jack might have asked in what way the old man expected to get even with the offending Government by denying support to all institutions designed to help the poor, but wisely kept the question in the background. “No charitable institution whatever.” The old man spoke slowly, emphatically, thumping the table with every other word.