you oh me money
possessor of twenty million dollars. He was a tall, spare man, with a
fringe of reddish-brown hair encircling a bald spot. His blue eyes,
fixed just now in a steady gaze upon a row of ponderous law books
across the room, were friendly and benevolent in direct contradiction
to the bulldog, never-let-go fighting qualities of the square jaw
below the firm, rather thin lips.
garb, hair, and mustache, sat idly watching him, yet with eyes that
looked so intently that they seemed to listen.
silence when the millionaire spoke.
scrutinizing glance usually reserved for the witness on the other
side. Then quietly came the answer.
but one suit of clothes at a time, nor eat but one dinner--which, by
the way, just now consists of somebody's health biscuit and hot water.
Twenty millions don't really what you might call melt away at that
hand. "I thought better of you than that. This poor rich man's 'one-
suit, one-dinner, one-bed-at-a-time' hard-luck story doesn't suit your
style. Better cut it out!"
was nettled. You didn't get me at all. I asked you what was to become
of my money after I'd done spending it myself--the little that is
like mother used to make? Why, man alive, you're barely over fifty,
yet. Cheer up! It's only a little matter of indigestion. There are a
lot of good days and good dinners coming to you, yet."
earnest. No, I don't think I'm going to die--yet awhile. But I ran
across young Bixby last night--got him home, in fact. Delivered him to
his white-faced little wife. Talk about your maudlin idiots!"
thinking--of mine, when I get through with them."
made your will, I believe."
thing like that, isn't it? And when we're so mighty particular where