'Hain't you got nothin' at all left ?' he says.
"Then this Hoover--still cryin', mind you--he says, 'Not a cent in the world except forty dollars in my trunk upstairs that I saved out to bury me with--and they won't send me another cent,' he says, 'because I tried 'em.' "It sounded awful to hear him talkin' like that about his own buryin', but it didn't phase Bernal none.
"'Forty dollars!' he says, kind of sniffy like.

'Why, man, what could you do for forty dollars?
Don't you know such things are very outrageous in price here?
Forty _dollars_--why,' he says, 'the very best you could do would be one of these plain pine things with black cloth tacked on to it, and pewter trimmin's if _any_,' he says.

'Think of _pewter_ trimmin's!' "'Say,' he says, when Hoover begun to look up at him, 'you run and dig up your old forty and I'll go back right now and win you out a full satin-lined, silver-trimmed one, polished mahogany and gold name-plate, and there'll be enough for a clock of immortelles with the hands stopped at just the hour it happens,' he says.

'And you want to hurry,' he says, 'it ought to be done right away--with that cough of yours.' "Me?
Gosh, I felt awful--I wanted to drop right through the floor, but this Hoover, he says all at once, still snufflin', mind you: 'Say, that's all right,' he says.

'If I'm goin' to do it at all, I ought to do it right for the credit of my folks.