Bill Napper was a heavy man of something between thirty-five and forty.
His moleskin trousers were strapped below the knees, and he wore his
coat loose on his back, with the sleeves tied across his chest. The
casual observer set him down a navvy, but Mrs. Napper punctiliously made
it known that he was "in the paving"; which meant that he was a pavior.
He lived in Canning Town, and was on a footpath job at West Ham (Allen
was the contractor) when he won and began to wear the nickname "Squire."
Daily at the stroke of twelve from the neighboring church, Bill Napper's
mates let drop rammer, trowel, spade, and pick, and turned toward a row
of basins, tied in blue-and-red handkerchiefs, and accompanied of divers
tin cans with smoky bottoms. Bill himself looked toward the street
corner for the punctual Polly bearing his own dinner fresh and hot; for
home was not far, and Polly, being thirteen, had no school now.
One day Polly was nearly ten minutes late. Bill, at first impatient,
grew savage, and thought wrathfully on the strap on its nail by the
kitchen-dresser. But at the end of the ten minutes Polly came, bringing
a letter as well as the basin-load of beef and cabbage. A young man had
left it, she said, after asking many ill-mannered questions. The letter
was addressed "W. Napper, Esq.," with a flourish; the words, "By hand,"
stood in the corner of the envelope; and on the flap at the back were
the embossed characters "T. & N." These things Bill Napper noted several
times over, as he turned the letter about in his hand.
"Seems to me you'll 'ave to open it after all," said one of Bill's
mates; and he opened it, setting back his hat as a preparation to
serious study. The letter was dated from Old Jewry, and ran thus:--
"_Re_ B. NAPPER _deceased_.
"DEAR SIR,--We have a communication in this matter from our
correspondents at Sydney, New South Wales, in respect to
testamentary dispositions under which you benefit. We shall be
obliged if you can make it convenient to call at this office any
day except Saturday between two and four.--Your obedient servants,
"TIMS & NORTON."
The dinner hour had gone by before the full inner meaning had been
wrested from this letter. "B. Napper deceased" Bill accepted, with a
little assistance, as an announcement of the death of his brother Ben,
who had gone to Australia nearly twenty years ago, and had been
forgotten. "Testamentary dispositions" nobody would tackle with
confidence, although its distinct suggestion of biblical study was duly
remarked. "Benefit" was right enough, and led one of the younger men,
after some thought, to the opinion that Bill Napper's brother might have
left him something: a theory instantly accepted as the most probable,
although some thought it foolish of him not to leave it direct instead
of authorizing the interference of a lawyer, who would want to do Bill
out of it.
Bill Napper put up his tools and went home. There the missis put an end
to doubt by repeating what the lawyer's clerk said: which was nothing
more definite than that Bill had been "left a bit"; and the clerk only
acknowledged so much when he had satisfied himself, by sinuous
questionings, that he had found the real legatee. He further advised the
bringing of certain evidence on the visit to the office. Thus it was
plain that the Napper fortunes were in good case, for, as "a bit" means
money all the world over, the thing was clearly no worthless keepsake.