'They've asked me to take the post,' Mark answered.
'What's the wages?' the older man asked, with exasperated sarcasm.
'Nothing.'
'Mark, lad,' the other said, softening, 'I'm worth seven hundred pounds and this freehold house. What dost think o' that?'
Even in that moment, with the world and its riches slipping away from his dying grasp, the contemplation of this great achievement of thrift filled Edward Beechinor with a sublime satisfaction. That sum of seven hundred pounds, which many men would dissipate in a single night, and forget the next morning that they had done so, seemed vast and almost incredible to him.
'I know you've always been very careful,' said Mark politely.
'Give up this old Labour Church'—again old Beechinor laid a withering emphasis on the phrase—'give up this Labour Church, and its all thine—house and all.'
Mark shook his head.
'Think twice,' the sick man ordered angrily. 'I tell thee thou'rt standing to lose every shilling.'
'I must manage without it, then.'