The papers did not look specially valuable; but McIntosh
handled them as if they were currency-notes.
Then he said slowly:--"In despite the many weaknesses of your education, you
have been good to me. I will speak of your tobacco when I reach the Gods. I owe
you much thanks for many kindnesses.
"But I abominate indebtedness. For this reason I bequeath to you now the
monument more enduring than brass--my one book--rude and imperfect in parts,
but oh, how rare in others! I wonder if you will understand it. It is a gift
more honorable than . . . Bah! where is my brain rambling to? You will mutilate
it horribly. You will knock out the gems you call 'Latin quotations,' you
Philistine, and you will butcher the style to carve into your own jerky jargon;
but you cannot destroy the whole of it. I bequeath it to you.
Ethel . . . My brain again! . . Mrs. McIntosh, bear witness that I give the
sahib all these papers. They would be of no use to you, Heart of my heart; and
I lay it upon you," he turned to me here, "that you do not let my book die in
its present form. It is yours unconditionally--the story of McIntosh
Jellaludin, which is NOT the story of McIntosh Jellaludin, but of a greater man
than he, and of a far greater woman.
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