On the afternoon of the last day out, Dick and Beveridge sat smoking on the after deck. The _Foote_ was rumbling slowly down the coast somewhere below Milwaukee, and should make Chicago before midnight if nothing broke in the engine room. They were discussing the Michigan peach crop when Henry drew up a chair and joined them. “Would you mind telling me,” said Henry to Beveridge, filling his pipe as he spoke, “what you are going to do with Dick, here?” So Henry was the one to open the subject. Dick's lips drew together and his hand trembled, but his eyes were steady. Beveridge was evasive. “What am I going to do with him?” he repeated. “Yes. You will have a good deal of say about that, won't you?” “Why--yes, and no.” “Now that you know he had nothing to do with it, you 'll be able to get him right off, won't you?” “Why--yes, so far as I know. I should expect it to turn out that way.” Henry saw that a definite answer was not to be expected, so he puffed a moment, looking off to the green shore-line. Finally he said, “Your man,--what's his name?” “Wilson?” “Yes, he's in pretty bad shape, isn't he?” “There's no doubt about that.” “Do you think he 'll pull through?” “I couldn't say.” “What would be the penalty if he didn't?” “That is for a judge and jury to decide.” “I suppose.” Henry paused again. Dick was gazing out at the water with fixed eyes. This cool talk made him shudder. “I've been thinking this over,” Henry went on. “Of course, you caught me red handed; and that, along with what I'm going to tell you, any time when you're ready, gives you a pretty clear case against me. My outlook isn't what you would call cheerful. I've never made a will, but I guess now is about as good a time as any to get about it. I've got my schooner, and I've got a little money put away,--some of it drawing interest and some in the bank,--and what there is of it is to go to Dick. He's the nearest approach to a relation I have, you know. And if I were you, Dick, I should take some of it the first thing and pay up for the _Anne_. That 'll make you more or less independent. Do you fellows mind coming down into the cabin and fixing it up now?” “Certainly not,” said Beveridge, rising. Dick found it difficult to reply, but he followed them below, and sat with them at the dining-table. Beveridge got pen, ink, and paper. “Now, I 'll tell you,” said Henry. “I 'll just make out sort of a schedule of what I'm worth. It won't take long. I know just what it is. There, now, I guess it 'll be enough to say that I devise and bequeath it all, without any conditions or exceptions, to Dick, he to take everything of mine for his own, to hold and to use in any way that he may choose. Will you witness this, Beveridge?” “Certainly.” “We ought to have some others.”