It was true that under the terms of his stepmother's will he would inherit it in the event of Betty's death--well, she looked like dying, a whole lot--she was as strong as a mule, those soft rounded curves covered plenty of vigorous muscle; Tom hated the very sight of her.

A pink-faced chit bubbling over with life and useless energy, a perfect curse she was, with all sorts of extravagant tastes and he was powerless to check her, for, although he was still her guardian, there were certain provisions of the will--he consulted the copy he kept locked up in his desk in the office--that permitted her to do pretty much as she pleased with her income.

It was a hell of a will! She could spend fifteen or twenty thousand dollars a year if she wanted to and he couldn't prevent it.

It was an iniquitous document! Well, the place could go straight off to the devil, he wouldn't wear out his life economizing for her to waste--he didn't get a thank-you--and he knew that nobody took off the land bigger crops than he did, while bale for bale his cotton outsold all other cotton raised in the county--that was the kind of a manager he was.

He wagged his head in self-approval.
And what did he get out of it?
A lump sum each year with a further lump sum of twenty thousand dollars when she came of age--soon now--or married.