Why yours are looking just ratty, don't you know; and yet you must be rich." "I am." The young man walked slowly back to the town, deeply musing as he went.
He halted a moment in front of the best restaurant, then glanced at his clothes and passed on, and got his breakfast at a "stand-up." There was a good deal of it, and it cost five shillings.

He tendered a sovereign, got his change, glanced at his silver, muttered to himself, "There isn't enough to buy clothes with," and went his way.
At half-past nine the richest wool-broker in Sydney was sitting in his morning-room at home, settling his breakfast with the morning paper.

A servant put his head in and said: "There's a sundowner at the door wants to see you, sir." "What do you bring that kind of a message here for?
Send him about his business." "He won't go, sir.

I've tried." "He won't go?
That's--why, that's unusual.

He's one of two things, then: he's a remarkable person, or he's crazy.