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THE $30,000 BEQUEST

 

and Other Stories

 

by

Mark Twain

 

(Samuel L. Clemens)

 

CONTENTS

 

The $30,000 Bequest

 

A Dog’s Tale

 

Was It Heaven? Or Hell?

 

A Cure for the Blues

 

The Enemy Conquered; or, Love Triumphant

 

The Californian’s Tale

 

A Helpless Situation

 

A Telephonic Conversation

 

Edward Mills and George Benton: A Tale

 

The Five Boons of Life

 

The First Writing-machines

 

Italian without a Master

 

Italian with Grammar

 

A Burlesque Biography

 

How to Tell a Story

 

General Washington’s Negro Body-servant

 

Wit Inspirations of the “Two-year-olds”

 

An Entertaining Article

 

A Letter to the Secretary of the Treasury

 

Amended Obituaries

 

A Monument to Adam

 

A Humane Word from Satan

 

Introduction to “The New Guide of the

 

Conversation in Portuguese and English”

 

Advice to Little Girls

 

Post-mortem Poetry

 

The Danger of Lying in Bed

 

Portrait of King William III

 

Does the Race of Man Love a Lord?

 

Extracts from Adam’s Diary

 

Eve’s Diary

***

THE $30,000 BEQUEST

CHAPTER I

Lakeside was a pleasant little town of five or six thousand inhabitants,

and a rather pretty one, too, as towns go in the Far West.

It had church accommodations for thirty-five thousand, which is

the way of the Far West and the South, where everybody is religious,

and where each of the Protestant sects is represented and has a plant

of its own. Rank was unknown in Lakeside—unconfessed, anyway;

everybody knew everybody and his dog, and a sociable friendliness

was the prevailing atmosphere.

 

Saladin Foster was book-keeper in the principal store, and the only

high-salaried man of his profession in Lakeside. He was thirty-five

years old, now; he had served that store for fourteen years;

he had begun in his marriage-week at four hundred dollars a year,

and had climbed steadily up, a hundred dollars a year, for four years;

from that time forth his wage had remained eight hundred—a handsome

figure indeed, and everybody conceded that he was worth it.

 

His wife, Electra, was a capable helpmeet, although—like himself—

a dreamer of dreams and a private dabbler in romance. The first thing

she did, after her marriage—child as she was, aged only nineteen—

was to buy an acre of ground on the edge of the town, and pay

down the cash for it—twenty-five dollars, all her fortune.

Saladin had less, by fifteen. She instituted a vegetable garden there,

got it farmed on shares by the nearest neighbor, and made it pay

her a hundred per cent. a year. Out of Saladin’s first year’s wage

she put thirty dollars in the savings-bank, sixty out of his second,

a hundred out of his third, a hundred and fifty out of his fourth.

His wage went to eight hundred a year, then, and meantime two children

had arrived and increased the expenses, but she banked two hundred

a year from the salary, nevertheless, thenceforth. When she had been

married seven years she built and furnished a pretty and comfortable

two-thousand-dollar house in the midst of her garden-acre, paid

half of the money down and moved her family in. Seven years later

she was out of debt and had several hundred dollars out earning

its living.

 

Earning it by the rise in landed estate; for she had long ago bought

another acre or two and sold the most of it at a profit to pleasant

people who were willing to build, and would be good neighbors and

furnish a general comradeship for herself and her growing family.

She had an independent income from safe investments of about a hundred

dollars a year; her children were growing in years and grace;

and she was a pleased and happy woman. Happy in her husband, happy in

her children, and the husband and the children were happy in her.

It is at this point that this history begins.

 

The youngest girl, Clytemnestra—called Clytie for short—

was eleven; her sister, Gwendolen—called Gwen for short—

was thirteen; nice girls, and comely. The names betray the latent

romance-tinge in the parental blood, the parents’ names indicate

that the tinge was an inheritance. It was an affectionate family,

hence all four of its members had pet names, Saladin’s was a curious

and unsexing one—Sally; and so was Electra’s—Aleck. All day

long Sally was a good and diligent book-keeper and salesman;

all day long Aleck was a good and faithful mother and housewife,

and thoughtful and calculating business woman; but in the cozy

living-room at night they put the plodding world away, and lived in

another and a fairer, reading romances to each other, dreaming dreams,

comrading with kings and princes and stately lords and ladies in the

flash and stir and splendor of noble palaces and grim and ancient castles.

CHAPTER II

Now came great news! Stunning news—joyous news, in fact.

It came from a neighboring state, where the family’s only surviving

relative lived. It was Sally’s relative—a sort of vague and indefinite

uncle or second or third cousin by the name of Tilbury Foster,

seventy and a bachelor, reputed well off and corresponding sour

and crusty. Sally had tried to make up to him once, by letter,

in a bygone time, and had not made that mistake again. Tilbury now

wrote to Sally, saying he should shortly die, and should leave him

thirty thousand dollars, cash; not for love, but because money

had given him most of his troubles and exasperations, and he wished

to place it where there was good hope that it would continue its

malignant work. The bequest would be found in his will, and would

be paid over. PROVIDED, that Sally should be able to prove to the

executors that he had TAKEN NO NOTICE OF THE GIFT BY SPOKEN WORD OR

BY LETTER, HAD MADE NO INQUIRIES CONCERNING THE MORIBUND’S PROGRESS

TOWARD THE EVERLASTING TROPICS, AND HAD NOT ATTENDED THE FUNERAL.

 

As soon as Aleck had partially recovered from the tremendous

emotions created by the letter, she sent to the relative’s habitat

and subscribed for the local paper.

 

Man and wife entered into a solemn compact, now, to never mention

the great news to any one while the relative lived, lest some

ignorant person carry the fact to the death-bed and distort it

and make it appear that they were disobediently thankful for

the bequest, and just the same as confessing it and publishing it,

right in the face of the prohibition.

 

For the rest of the day Sally made havoc and confusion with his books,

and Aleck could not keep her mind on her affairs, not even take up

a flower-pot or book or a stick of wood without forgetting what she

had intended to do with it. For both were dreaming.

 

“Thir-ty thousand dollars!”

 

All day long the music of those inspiring words sang through

those people’s heads.

 

From his marriage-day forth, Aleck’s grip had been upon the purse,

and Sally had seldom known what it was to be privileged to squander

a dime on non-necessities.

 

“Thir-ty thousand dollars!” the song went on and on. A vast sum,

an unthinkable sum!

 

All day long Aleck was absorbed in planning how to invest it,

Sally in planning how to spend it.

 

There was no romance-reading that night. The children took

themselves away early, for their parents were silent, distraught,

and strangely unentertaining. The good-night kisses might as well

have been impressed upon vacancy, for all the response they got;

the parents were not aware of the kisses, and the children had

been gone an hour before their absence was noticed. Two pencils

had been busy during that hour—note-making; in the way of plans.

It was Sally who broke the stillness at last. He said, with exultation:

 

“Ah, it’ll be grand, Aleck! Out of the first thousand we’ll have

a horse and a buggy for summer, and a cutter and a skin lap-robe

for winter.”

 

Aleck responded with decision and composure—

 

“Out of the CAPITAL? Nothing of the kind. Not if it was a million!”

 

Sally was deeply disappointed; the glow went out of his face.

 

“Oh, Aleck!” he said, reproachfully. “We’ve always worked so hard

and been so scrimped: and now that we are rich, it does seem—”

 

He did not finish, for he saw her eye soften; his supplication

had touched her. She said, with gentle persuasiveness:

 

“We must not spend the capital, dear, it would not be wise.

Out of the income from it—”

 

“That will answer, that will answer, Aleck! How dear and good you are!

There will be a noble income and if we can spend that—”

 

“Not ALL of it, dear, not all of it, but you can spend a part of it.

That is, a reasonable part. But the whole of the capital—

every penny of it—must be put right to work, and kept at it.

You see the reasonableness of that, don’t you?”

 

“Why, ye-s. Yes, of course. But we’ll have to wait so long.

Six months before the first interest falls due.”

 

“Yes—maybe longer.”

 

“Longer, Aleck? Why? Don’t they pay half-yearly?”

 

“THAT kind of an investment—yes; but I sha’n’t invest in that way.”

 

“What way, then?”

 

“For big returns.”

 

“Big. That’s good. Go on, Aleck. What is it?”

 

“Coal. The new mines. Cannel. I mean to put in ten thousand.

Ground floor. When we organize, we’ll get three shares for one.”

 

“By George, but it sounds good, Aleck! Then the shares will be worth—

how much? And when?”

 

“About a year. They’ll pay ten per cent. half yearly, and be

worth thirty thousand. I know all about it; the advertisement

is in the Cincinnati paper here.”

 

“Land, thirty thousand for ten—in a year! Let’s jam in the whole

capital and pull out ninety! I’ll write and subscribe right now—

tomorrow it maybe too late.”

 

He was flying to the writing-desk, but Aleck stopped him and put

him back in his chair. She said:

 

“Don’t lose your head so. WE mustn’t subscribe till we’ve got

the money; don’t you know that?”

 

Sally’s excitement went down a degree or two, but he was not

wholly appeased.

 

“Why, Aleck, we’ll HAVE it, you know—and so soon, too. He’s probably

out of his troubles before this; it’s a hundred to nothing he’s

selecting his brimstone-shovel this very minute. Now, I think—”

 

Aleck shuddered, and said:

 

“How CAN you, Sally! Don’t talk in that way, it is perfectly scandalous.”

 

“Oh, well, make it a halo, if you like, I don’t care for his outfit,

I was only just talking. Can’t you let a person talk?”

 

“But why should you WANT to talk in that dreadful way? How would

you like to have people talk so about YOU, and you not cold yet?”

 

“Not likely to be, for ONE while, I reckon, if my last act was

giving away money for the sake of doing somebody a harm with it.

But never mind about Tilbury, Aleck, let’s talk about something worldly.

It does seem to me that that mine is the place for the whole thirty.

What’s the objection?”

 

“All the eggs in one basket—that’s the objection.”

 

“All right, if you say so. What about the other twenty?

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