No dollar slept in his possession; rather he kept all simultaneously flying like a conjurer with oranges.

My own earnings, when I began to have a share, he would but show me for a moment, and disperse again, like those illusive money gifts which are flashed in the eyes of childhood only to be entombed in the missionary box.

And he would come down radiant from a weekly balance-sheet, clap me on the shoulder, declare himself a winner by Gargantuan figures, and prove destitute of a quarter for a drink.
"What on earth have you done with it ?" I would ask.
"Into the mill again; all re-invested!" he would cry, with infinite delight.

Investment was ever his word.

He could not bear what he called gambling.