etters out of his pocket,
and examined them, and then examined the old man's writing, and then THEM
again; and then says: "These old letters is from Harvey Wilks; and
here's THESE two handwritings, and anybody can see they didn't write
them" (the king and the duke looked sold and foolish, I tell you, to see
how the lawyer had took them in), "and here's THIS old gentleman's hand
writing, and anybody can tell, easy enough, HE didn't write them--fact
is, the scratches he makes ain't properly WRITING at all. Now, here's
some letters from--"

The new old gentleman says:

"If you please, let me explain. Nobody can read my hand but my brother
there--so he copies for me. It's HIS hand you've got there, not mine."

"WELL!" says the lawyer, "this IS a state of things. I've got some of
William's letters, too; so if you'll get him to write a line or so we can
com--"

"He CAN'T write with his left hand," says the old gentleman. "If he
could use his right hand, you would see that he wrote his own letters and
mine too. Look at both, please--they're by the same hand."

The lawyer done it, and says:

"I believe it's so--and if it ain't so, there's a heap stronger
resemblance than I'd noticed before, anyway. Well, well, well! I
thought we was right on the track of a solution, but it's gone to grass,
partly. But anyway, one thing is proved--THESE two ain't either of 'em
Wilkses"--and he wagged his head towards the king and the duke.

Well, what do you think? That muleheaded old fool wouldn't give in THEN!
Indeed he wouldn't. Said it warn't no fair test. Said his brother
William was the cussedest joker in the world, and hadn't tried to write
--HE see William was going to play one of his jokes the minute he put the
pen to paper. And so he warmed up and went warbling right along till he
was actuly beginning to believe what he was saying HIMSELF; but pretty
soon the new gentleman broke in, and says:

"I've thought of something. Is there anybody here that helped to lay out
my br--helped to lay out the late Peter Wilks for burying?"

"Yes," says somebody, "me and Ab Turner done it. We're both here."

Then the old man turns towards the king, and says:

"Perhaps this gentleman can tell me what was tattooed on his breast?"

Blamed if the king didn't have to brace up mighty quick, or he'd a
squshed down like a bluff bank that the river has cut under, it took him
so sudden; and, mind you, it was a thing that was calculat