MINERVA

, it don’t seem to come handy; what you want is practice. You do it pretty awkward.” I didn’t care nothing for the compliment, but I was glad to be let off, anyway. The doctor he started to say something, and turns and says: “If you’d been in town at first, Levi Bell—” The king broke in and reached out his hand, and says: “Why, is this my poor dead brother’s old friend that he’s wrote so often about?” The lawyer and him shook hands, and the lawyer smiled and looked pleased, and they talked right along awhile, and then got to one side and talked low; and at last the lawyer speaks up and says: “That’ll fix it. I’ll take the order and send it, along with your brother’s, and then they’ll know it’s all right.” So they got some paper and a pen, and the king he set down and twisted his head to one side, and chawed his tongue, and scrawled off something; and then they give the pen to the duke—and then for the first time the duke looked sick. But he took the pen and wrote. So then the lawyer turns to the new old gentleman and says: “You and your brother please write a line or two and sign your names.” The old gentleman wrote, but nobody couldn’t read it. The lawyer looked powerful astonished, and says: “Well, it beats _me_”—and snaked a lot of old letters 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 and 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