"Theer tha goes again. 'Oo's ill, didn't Daft Billy say. Happen 'oo's bahn to mak' her will an' appoint thee her, what do yo' ca' it?--exekittor. Aw suddn't be capped if 'oo'd getten a stockin' laid by snug an' safe somewheer. Yo' nivver can tell bi th' way fo'k live how they'll cut up when they dee. Yo' needn't go further nor owd Mr. Garside, 'at you're sort o' heir to, to prove that. An' wimmen's nat'rally of a more savin' an' scrattin' natur' nor men. When they tak' that way they can live a week on th' backbone of a herrin', an' if they live long enough it's surprisin' how it mounts up. An' yo' needn't ha' so mich to start on, nother. Aw were at th' Market Cross i' Huddersfelt one Tuesday, an' there were one o' those teetotal chaps 'at's just come up a lecturin'. Varry smart at figures he were, to be sewer. He axed ony man i' th' crowd to tell him what he spent i' ale ivery week. Nob'dy seemed anxious to tell him, so just to encourage th' chap aw said, 'Two bob, maybe.' Weel, he had it worked aat in his yead i' double quicksticks 'at that were more nor five pund a year, an' he axed me ha' owd aw were. 'Four and twenty,' says I. 'Put that i' th' bank at some mak' o' interest'--it were a queerish name, like what th' doctors say when you've brokken yo'r arm i' two spots" "Compound interest," I suggested. "Tha's getten it. 'Put it i' th' bank at compound interest, an' bi' th' time yo'r forty yo'll ha'--aw dunnot gradely remember how mich it were, but he med it aat ivery man i' th' country could ha' a house to live in an' another to let, an' if a felly nobbut lived till he were eighty he could buy Buckingham Palace, for owt aw know." "Was that how you came to start _your_ stocking?" I asked. "Weel, in a manner o' speakin' yo' may say it were. That an' summat else--but that's up another street. But it's weary work savin' brass. Aw'n counted my bit till mi wit's nearly addled, an' aw cannot see 'at it gets onny bigger except when aw put summat to it missen. It's that compound interest lays ovver me; an' what's th' use o' tellin' them mak' o' fairy tales, when yo' know varry weel it can't be done. But here we are at th' top o' th' Ainley Place, an' a rare poo' it's bin up th' broo, wi' the' snow ballin' i' yo'r clogs ivery five yard. Yo'll excuse me, Abe, aw'm noan so set o' these Burnplatters. Yo'll find yo'r way whom wi'out me, so aw'st leave yo' here, an' if th' owd hag _has_ owt to fling away, an's lookin' for a desarvin' objec', just yo' put a word in for yours truly." And Jim clapped me heartily on the back, and turned back the way we had come.