"Oh, I can pick up a few dollars now and then lobsterin' and fishin'," says he. "But it's rough work in the winter time."
"And then all of a sudden, you say," says I, "you get fifty thousand."
"I couldn't believe it at fust," says he. "Neither did Cap'n Bill Logan. He was the only one I showed the letter to. 'Mebbe it's just some fake,' says he, 'gittin' you on there to sign papers. Tell 'em to send twenty dollars for travelin' expenses.' Wall, I did, and what do you think? They sends back two hundred, b'gum! Yes, Sir, Cap'n Bill took the check up to Wiscasset and got the money on it from the bank. Two hundred dollars! Why, say, that would take me putty nigh round the world, I guess. I left part of it with the Cap'n, and made him promise not to tell a soul. You see, I didn't want Cynthy to git wind of it."
"Oh-ho!" says I. "Some relation, is she?"
"Cynthy? Land, no!" says he. "She's just the Widow Allen, over to the Neck—Cynthy Hamill that was. I've known her ever since she taught school at Bristol Mills. She's been a widow goin' on twenty years now, and most of that time we've been—well, I ain't missed goin' across the bay once or twice a week in all that time. You see, Cynthy not havin' any man, I kind of putter around for her, see that she has plenty of stovewood and kindlin' chopped, and so on. She's real good company, Cynthy is,—plays hymns on the organ, knits socks for me, and hanged if she can't make the best fish chowder I ever e't! Course, I know the neighbors laugh some about Cynthy and me; but they're welcome. Always askin' me when the weddin's comin' off. But sho! They know well enough I never had the money to git married on."
"Got enough now, though, ain't you, Uncle Jimmy?" says I, winkin'.
"Too blamed much," says he. "Cap'n Bill showed me that plain at our last talk. 'Why, you old fool,' says he, 'if it turns out true, then you're a mighty rich man, 'most a millionaire! You can't stay on livin' here in your old shack at Pemaquid. You got to have the luxuries and the refinements of life now,' says he, 'and you got to go to the city to git 'em. Boston might do for some; but if it was me I'd camp right down in New York at one of them swell hotels, and just enjoy myself to the end of my days.' Wall, here I be, and I'm gittin' used to the luxuries gradual."
"How hard have you splurged?" says I.
"Had two sodas yesterday," says he, "and maybe I'll tackle one of them movin' picture shows to-morrow. I been aimin' to. It'd be all right, wouldn't it?"
"Yes, I wouldn't call that any wild extravagance, with fifty thousand to draw on," says I. "How have you got it?"