Weir There’s a Will.
“Are you out of your mind?” I said, looking at the cage of rabid weir-wolves.
“If you’re the rightful heir, they’ll not harm a hair on your head,” said George, the Company Secretary.
“It’s not the hairs on my head I’m worried about.”
“Just go inside and prove you are your father’s son, it’s simple,” he said.
Grabbing him, I opened the cage and forced him into the snarling mass of teeth and fur.
I returned to the boardroom to tumultuous applause from the directors.
“Where’s old George,” they asked.
“He stayed to feed the dogs,” I replied.