“A miser?” said Mr. Lane. “Really?”
“Really! ’E told me so ’isself dozens of times! ‘Sam,’ ’e says to me, ‘you’d never believe ’ow much I’ve got saved up!’ Couldn’t bear to spend a penny, ’e couldn’t; and ’e kept it all in the ’ouse. Didn’t believe in banks, ’e said.”
“And I suppose they found it when—”
“Not a brass farthing!” cheerfully affirmed Mr. Clark.
“Strange! What did his relations do about it?”
“’E’d only got one, a great-nephew, and ’e was away at the time and couldn’t be found.”
“But who paid for the funeral? It must have cost a lot, taking place in Scotland.”
“Some of us paid for it, sir, ’is old pals. Leastwise, we sold all ’is furniture and stuff, and raised the money that way.”
“But what do you think became of his savings?”
“Well, if you ask me, sir I reckon the old fool—begging ’is pardon, I forgot!—the poor old fellow ’ad kept on changing ’em into paper money and ’ad burned ’em by accident, or else because ’e couldn’t bear the idea of anyone else getting ’em after ’e was gone.”