"Oh, they don't, eh? And what do they do with it—pave streets?"
The valet smiled.
"You are having your little joke with me this morning, Mr. Dawson," he said, "or else you have forgotten that all we do with silver now is to make it into bricks and build houses with 'em."
"Well, I'll be hanged!" cried Dawson. "Really?"
"Certainly, sir," observed the valet. "You must remember how silver gradually cheapened and cheapened until finally it ruined the clay-brick industry?"
"Ah, yes," said Dawson. "I had temporarily forgotten. I do remember the tendency of silver to cheapen, but the ruin of the brick industry has escaped me. This house is—ah—built of silver bricks?"
"Of course it is, Mr. Dawson. As if you didn't know!" said the valet, with a deprecatory smirk.
"Ah—about how much coal—I mean gold—have we in the cellar?" Dawson asked.
"In eagles we have $230,000, sir, but I think there's half a million in fivers. I haven't counted up the $20 pieces for eight weeks, but I think we have a couple of tons left, sir."
"Then, James— Is your name James?"