“That’s it!” exclaimed Hiram.  “That’s what I want.  Can you draw me up that kind of plan?  No boy, no matter what he has at home, can come to that there college without working his way through, without learning to work, me to provide the chance to earn the living.”

“I have just such a plan,” said Hargrave, drawing a paper from his pocket.  “I’ve had it ready for years waiting for just such an opportunity.”

“Read it,” said Hiram, sinking deep in his big chair and closing his eyes and beginning to rub his forehead with his great hand.

And Hargrave read, forgetting his surroundings, forgetting everything in his enthusiasm for this dream of his life—­a university, in fact as well as in name, which would attract the ambitious children of rich and well-to-do and poor, would teach them how to live honestly and nobly, would give them not only useful knowledge to work with but also the light to work by.  “You see, Hiram, I think a child ought to begin to be a man as soon as he begins to live—­a man, standing on his own feet, in his own shoes, with the courage that comes from knowing how to do well something which the world needs.”

He looked at Hiram for the first time in nearly half an hour.  He was alarmed by the haggard, ghastly gray of that majestic face; and his thought was not for his plan probably about to be thwarted by the man’s premature death, but of his own selfishness in wearying and imperiling him by importunity at such a time.  “But we’ll talk of this again,” he said sadly, putting the paper in his pocket and rising for instant departure.

“Give me the paper,” said Hiram, putting out his trembling hand, but not lifting his heavy, blue-black lids.

Mark gave it to him hesitatingly.  “You’d better put it off till you’re stronger, Hiram.”

“I’ll see,” said Hiram.  “Good morning, Mark.”

* * * * *

Judge Torrey was the next to get Ranger’s summons; it came toward mid-afternoon of that same day.  Like Hargrave, Torrey had been his life-long friend.

“Torrey,” he said, “I want you to examine this plan”—­and he held up the paper Hargrave had left—­“and, if it is not legal, put it into legal shape, and incorporate it into my will.  I feel I ain’t got much time.”  With a far-away, listening look—­“I must put my house in order—­in order.  Draw up a will and bring it to me before five o’clock.  I want you to write it yourself—­trust no one—­no one!” His eyes were bright, his cheeks bluish, and he spoke in a thick, excited voice that broke and shrilled toward the end of each sentence.

“I can’t do it to-day.  Too much haste—­”

“To-day!” commanded Hiram.  “I won’t rest till it’s done!”

“Of course, I can—­”

“Read the paper now, and give me your opinion.”

Torrey put on his glasses, opened the paper.  “Oh!” he exclaimed.  “I remember this.  It’s in my partner’s handwriting.  Hargrave had Watson draw it up about five years ago.  We were very careful in preparing it.  It is legal.”