“You keep to it,” said the greybeard impressively; “money was made to be took care of; if you don't spend your money you've always got it. I've always been a saving man—what's the result?”
The cook, waiting some time in patience to be told, gently inquired what it was.
“'Ere am I,” said Mr. Lister, good-naturedly helping him to cut a cabbage, “at the age of sixty-two with a bank-book down below in my chest, with one hundered an' ninety pounds odd in it.”
“One 'undered and ninety pounds!” repeated the cook, with awe.
“To say nothing of other things,” continued Mr. Lister, with joyful appreciation of the effect he was producing. “Altogether I've got a little over four 'undered pounds.”
The cook gasped, and with gentle firmness took the cabbage from him as being unfit work for a man of such wealth.
“It's very nice,” he said, slowly. “It's very nice. You'll be able to live on it in your old age.”
Mr. Lister shook his head mournfully, and his eyes became humid.
“There's no old age for me,” he said, sadly; “but you needn't tell them,” and he jerked his thumb towards the forecastle.
“No, no,” said the cook.