The San Juan islander. [volume] (Friday Harbor, Wash.) 1898-1914, 1905-10-21
CHAPTER XXI.


you waste half the morning; let us &c,
on. At this rate" he sighed, 1--WE shall
take months before get back the prop
erty.''
There will be no trade this morning
uncle" David replied, standing in thu
doorway. 1t was a week after l had tolo
him the truth. He had been turning II
over in his mind in the interval.
"Why not? David, if you were near
ly seventy you would be anxious to gel
on; you would not shilly-shally over
single bit Of paper. Let us get on, Da
vid. Oh, you've got all the power now
and I am in your hands. / won't grum
BILE, David. No, take your own time
my boy; take your own time"
The poor old man was strangely al
tered in four or five weeks, that hi
should thus humble himself before hi!
nephew. But David had all the power 81
long as he had any Of those coupons left
You little thought when l came here
that l was going to give you so mucf
trouble, did you, Uncle Daniel? YOU
thought you had the whip hand over me
always, didn't you? But you see. frs
the fall from your pony, then the loss Of
your papers, then the stroke, then my
coming home and finding those papers
all part of the judgment!-and now
there's more to follow"
What more? Oh, David, what more !?
the helpless old man only groaned.
To-day, uncle, I have come to talk
about my aunt's will. Will Nethercote
told me. You did not. You thought that
Is soon as our little business was finish
ed [ should 60 away and never come
back any more. You thought you would
keep the money, did you? Not SO, uncle
not SOP
Il thought you would never find Il
out, David" Mr. Leighan confessed, with
somewhat surprising candor. II soo1
found that you knew nothing about it.
and that you never 60 about and talk
and l was pretty certain that you would
never find out. Well, now you know,
what difference does it make? You are
no nearer the money"
I'VE shall see. My aunt might jus,
as well have left it to me as to you
To be sure, | never thought she had hall
so much. She began with a thousand
She must have pinched and saved She
left 1t to Mary, on the condition Of her
marrying with your consent: and, if not
the money was to go to me. And If
was dead, the will said nothing. So you
thought you could stick to the money.
Uncle, you're a foxy one! You ought to
be in the States, and thirty years young.
er. There you would find yourself at
home. with plenty of opportunity. Well
L am wiser now than was. And see
now. uncle, l don't mean to go away
until this question is settled. What are
You going to do?"
{ sWhy should I tell your
I. Keep it to yourself, then 1 will tell
you what you thought you were going to
do: I've worked it all out. First, If you
let George and Mary get married before
the law let's you take Sidcote you will
lose Sidcote." He began, in his slow
way, to tick of his points upon his fin
gers. That's the first thing. After
you have got Sidcote, you will be still
loath to let the money go, and you will
keep Mary waiting on. You think that
shall soon 90. Then you will keep the
money as long as you live. But suppose
they were to marry without your consent,
all the money comes to incomes to me.
That sticks, doesn't it? You can let
them marry now-and you will lose Sid
cote; you can let them marry after you
have got Sidcote; and you will have to
pay up; if you keep on refusing your con-
sent, you can keep the money as long as
you like-unless they marry without.
Then you've got to give it to me. You've
had a taste of me already"
He waited a little. His uncle said
nothing, but watched him from under
his long, white eXebrows-not contempt
uously, as on the first interview after his
return. but with the respect due to the
strength of the situation.
Very well, then; you would rather
give that money to Mary than to me.
But you would like to get Sidcote; you
hate the thought of giving it to me, You
intended to keep 1t yourself. Yet there
Is no way out of it if you want Sidcote
Perhaps you think you would give it to
Mary. after you have got Sidcote. But
suppose she marries before? Then you
would be obliged to give it all to me-"
go on, David; perhaps you are going
to propose something"
Il have been thinking things over. I'M
Gle. You are getting old. you may die
my uoy, SAcA MARY WOuIu De Tree. III
Is true that she might marry tomorrow,
In which case I should be entitled to ey.
erything. But l don't think she would
be such fool. If l were Mary, l should
wait. You are seventy now, and you've
lost the use of your legs. You can't last
very long. l should wait, If were
Mary. Yes; it might be year or two,
1t couldn't be longer"
His uncle heard without any emotion
this argument in favor of his approach.
Ing demise-country people use plainne.,
of speech about such matters-but he
felt himself very far from dying, as mas
terful men always do up to the very end
We'll, David, supposing that what you
say is common sense, what next? II
Mary marries at once she is a fool. and
then l have you to reckon with. There
il good bit outstanding on the old ac
count, and I don't suppose there would
be much coming to you when compound
interest and all comes to be reckonei
up"
AS for your outstanding accounts. ".
shall see when the time comes. And =,
Tor compound interest, it will be 70,
you to pay that on my aunt's six thou
do