"Left you everything?" continued the burly man. Quinney nodded, and after a pause the other continued huskily: "Old Joe had something snug to leave—hey?" "Right again," replied Young Joe. "More’n you thought for, I’ll be bound?" "Maybe." "Well, my boy, hold on to it—as he did. It’s a damned sight easier to make money than to keep it." "I made some of it," said Quinney. "Not much." Quinney shrugged his shoulders and passed on, slightly exasperated because a butcher had stopped him in Mel Street, Melchester, with the obvious intention of pumping details out of him. The butcher walked on, chuckling to himself. "Young Joe," he reflected, "is a-goin’ to be like Old Joe. Rare old skinflint he was, to be sure!" Quinney, meantime, had reached the dingy shop known to all Melchester as "Quinney’s." The shutters were up—stout oak boards sadly in need of a coat of paint. Quinney opened a side door, and entered his own house—his—his! He could think of nothing else. Quinney’s, and all it contained, belonged to him. Immediately after the funeral, when the house was full of people, the young man was dazed. And when the will was opened, and he learned that Old Joe had saved nearly ten thousand pounds, he felt positively giddy, replying vaguely to discreet whispers of congratulation with jerky sentences such as "By Gum, this is a surprise!" or, with nervous twitchings of the mouth and eyes, "Rum go, isn’t it, that I should be rich?" Later, Young Joe had gone for a walk alone, seeking the high downs above the ancient town. The keen air blew the fog out of his brain, and presently he exclaimed aloud: "Yes; I am Quinney’s." After a pause he burst out again, speaking with such vehemence that a fat sheep who was staring at him ran away. "Gosh! I’m jolly glad that I gave him a tip-top funeral. He’d have pinched something awful over mine." After this explosion—silence, broken intermittently by whistling. *II*