Part 35 (2/2)
”Father Brachet,” a weak voice came up from the floor.
Brother Paul hurried out, calling Brother Etienne softly from the door.
”I am here.” The Superior came from the foot of the pallet, and knelt down near the head.
”You--remember what you said last July?”
”About--”
”About making rest.i.tution.”
”Yes.”
”Well, I can do it now.”
”I am glad.”
”I've brought you the papers. That's why--I--_had_ to come. Will you--take them--out of my--”
The priest unbuckled a travel-stained buckskin miner's belt and laid it on the floor. All the many pockets were empty save the long one in the middle. He unb.u.t.toned the flap and took out some soiled, worn-looking papers. ”Are zese in proper form?” he asked, but the man seemed to have dropped into unconsciousness. Hurriedly the priest added: ”Zere is no time to read zem. Ah! Mr.--will you come and witness zis last will and testament?”
The Boy got up and stood near. The man from Minook opened his eyes.
”Here!” The priest had got writing materials, and put a pen into the slack hand, with a block of letter-paper under it.
”I--I'm no lawyer,” said the faint voice, ”but I think it's all--in shape. Anyhow--you write--and I'll sign.” He half closed his eyes, and the paper slipped from under his hand. The Boy caught it, and set down the faint words:--”will and bequeath to John M. Berg, Kansas City, my right and t.i.tle to claim No. 11 Above, Little Minook, Yukon Ramparts--”
And the voice fell away into silence. They waited a moment, and the Superior whispered:
”Can you sign it?”
The dull eyes opened. ”Didn't I--?”
Father Brachet held him up; the Boy gave him the pen and steadied the paper. ”Thank you, Father. Obliged to you, too.” He turned his dimming eyes upon the Boy, who wrote his name in witness. ”You--going to Minook?”
”I hope so.”
The Father went to the writing-table, where he tied up and sealed the packet.
”Anybody that's going to Minook will have to hustle.” The slang of everyday energy sounded strangely from dying lips--almost a whisper, and yet like a far-off bugle calling a captive to battle.
The Boy leaned down to catch the words, yet fainter:
”Good claims going like hot cakes.”
”How much,” the Boy asked, breathless, ”did you get out of yours?”
”Waiting till summer. Nex' summer--” The eyelids fell.
”So it isn't a fake after all.” The Boy stood up. ”The camp's all right!”
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