“Ah,” said Mr. Caske, somewhat uneasily, “you don’t take me, sir. It’s not that he spends his money. It’s the rate at which he gives it away. He’s simply flinging it from him right and left!”
As he spoke, Mr. Caske swelled with righteous indignation. Money, in his eyes, was a sacred thing—to be guarded with care, and parted with reluctantly. No working man could have been more careful with regard to the disposal of each individual shilling of his weekly wages, than was Mr. Caske in the handling of his considerable wealth.
“He’s simply tossing his money from him, sir,” he reiterated, “as if it were just a heap of leaves.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Botterill, “and it doesn’t seem right.”
Mr. Botterill was a tall man, with glossy black hair and whiskers, and an inflamed face. He seemed never to be quite at ease in his mind, which, perhaps, was not matter for surprise.
Mr. Kershaw next felt that it was his turn to speak.
“Ah,” he said, “this kind of thing makes a false impression, you know!”
Though a man of moderate bodily dimensions, Mr. Kershaw had a largeness of manner which seemed to magnify him far beyond his real proportions. He spread himself abroad, and made the most of himself. He had actually a large head, which was bald on the top, with dark bushy hair round about. His face, which was deeply pitted with small-pox, was adorned with mutton-chop whiskers, from between which a very prominent nose and chin thrust themselves forth.
“Yes,” broke in Mr. Caske, “people will be apt to think that everybody who has a little bit of money ought to do as he does. But, if that were the case, where should I be, for instance?” and Mr. Caske swelled himself out more than ever.
Mr. Durnford had hitherto listened in silence. Though inclined to speak in very strong terms, he had restrained himself with a powerful effort. He knew that if he allowed these men to proceed, they would soon fill their cup.