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 the old man turns towards the king, and says: “Perhaps this gentleman can tell me what was tattooed on his breast?” Blamed if the king didn't have to brace up mighty quick, or he'd a squshed down like a bluff bank that the river has cut under, it took him so sudden; and, mind you, it was a thing that was calculated to make most _anybody_ sqush to get fetched such a solid one as that without any notice, because how was _he_ going to know what was tattooed on the man?  He whitened a little; he couldn't help it; and it was mighty still in there, and everybody bending a little forwards and gazing at him.  Says I to myself, _now_ he'll throw up the sponge--there ain't no more use.  Well, did he?  A body can't hardly believe it, but he didn't.  I reckon he thought he'd keep the thing up till he tired them people out, so they'd thin out, and him and the duke could break loose and get away.  Anyway, he set there, and pretty soon he begun to smile, and says: “Mf!  It's a _very_ tough question, _ain't_ it!  _yes_, sir, I k'n tell you what's tattooed on his breast.  It's jest a small, thin, blue arrow--that's what it is; and if you don't