sponge. He's had a printed letter from London lawyers, threatening he with jail, so he's a-writing of 'em that he's got no claim to be Duke of Belmont. Schoolmaster's just finished t' letter to t' lawyers."
"Gracious powers!" cried Tom Pitts, "you're never going to knuckle under like that?"
The old man cleared his throat once or twice, all his former loquacity gone.
"It's the missus," he growled. "Says her's going to stand no more dommed nonsense. Her says I be no more Duke of Belmont nor she is. Her be a respectable woman, her says, wi' none of her kin ever in jail, and her's not going to begin now."
"Let's see the London letter," demanded Tom.
It was handed to him, and with unnecessary care he scanned it over, for it was no news to him, coming, as it did, not from the Duke of Belmont's solicitors, but from the least employed firm of his own, and dictated by himself. The letter was typewritten, which added to its fearsome authority in the eyes of those present, they never having seen such a document before.
"Now let me look at the reply," and the school-master handed to Tom the written sheet. It was a complete and abject renunciation of Stover's claim, and only awaited his signature. There was a smile on Tom's lips as he tore it carefully into four
