"Nothing is enough, as long as I can get more."
"Come, Wolverton, don't be such a money-grabber. You must be rolling in money."
The old man shrugged his shoulders in deprecation.
"Times are dull, and—I lose money sometimes," he said.
"Not much, if you know it," said Burton, jocosely. "Well, just write a receipt for six months' interest, one hundred and fifty dollars."
Aaron Wolverton took the proffered bills, eyeing them with eager cupidity, and put them in his desk. Then he made out a receipt, and handed it to his visitor.
"You will be paying the mortgage next year?" he said inquiringly.
"I don't know, Wolverton. If the crops are good, I may pay a part. But I am afraid I am not a very good manager. I can't save money like you, and that brings me round to the question: For whom are you piling up all this wealth? Is it for Sam?"
"Sam is a young loafer," said Wolverton, with a frown. "I give him a home and his living, and he is almost too lazy to breathe."
"You were not that way at his age?"