"I do not know if you paid
much attention to its details. I must remind you of one. You are
required to render to us an account of the manner of expenditure of
this $1,000 as soon as you have disposed of it. The will stipulates
that. I trust that you will so far comply with the late Mr. Gillian's
wishes."
"You may depend upon it," said the young man.% politely, "in spite of
the extra expense it will entail. I may have to engage a secretary. I
was never good at accounts."
Gillian went to his club. There he hunted out one whom he called Old
Bryson.
Old Bryson was calm and forty and sequestered. He was in a corner
reading a book, and when he saw Gillian approaching he sighed, laid
down his book and took off his glasses.
"Old Bryson, wake up," said Gillian. "I've a funny story to tell
you."
"I wish you would tell it to some one in the billiard room," said Old
Bryson. "You know how I hate your stories."
"This is a better one than usual," said Gillian, rolling a cigarette;
"and I'm glad to tell it to you. It's too sad and funny to go with
the rattling of billiard balls. I've just come from my late uncle's
firm of legal corsairs. He leaves me an even thousand dollars. Now,
what can a man possibly do with a thousand dollars?"
"I thought," said Old Bryson, showing as much interest as a bee
shows in a vinegar cruet, "that the late Septimus Gillian was worth
something like half a million."
"He was," assented Gillian, joyously, "and that's where the joke
comes in.
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