“Dem taters what we got outer de extry sterrups of dat ridin’-saddle is mos’ gone,” he ventured one morning at breakfast, when the remains of the cup money had reached a low ebb.  “Shall I tote de udder saddle down to dat Gadgem man”—­(he never called him anything else, although of late he had conceived a marked respect for the collector)—­“or shall I keep it fer some mo’ sugar?”

“What else is short, Todd?” said St. George, good-naturedly, helping himself to another piece of corn bread.

“Well, dere’s plenty ob dose decanter crackers and de pair ob andirons is still holdin’ out wid de mango pickles an’ de cheese, but dat pair ob ridin’-boots is mos’ gone.  We got half barrel ob flour an’ a bag o’ coffee, ye ‘member, wid dem boots.  I done seen some smoked herrin’ in de market yisterday mawnin’ ‘d go mighty good wid de buckwheat cakes an’ sugar-house ’lasses—­only we ain’t got no ‘lasses.  I was a-thinkin’ dem two ol’ cheers in de garret ’d come in handy; ain’t nobody sot in em since I been yere; de bottoms is outen one o’ dem, but de legs an’ backs is good ‘nough fer a quart o’ ’lasses.  I kin take ’em down to de same place dat Gadgem man tol’ me to take de big brass shovel an’ tongs—­”

“All right, Todd,” rejoined St. George, highly amused at the boy’s economic resources.  “Anything that Mr. Gadgem recommends I agree to.  Yes—­take him the chairs—­both of them.”

Even the men at the club had noticed the change and congratulated him on his good spirits.  None of them knew of his desperate straits, although many of them had remarked on the differences in his hospitality, while some of the younger gallants—­men who made a study of the height and roll of the collars of their coats and the latest cut of waistcoats—­especially the increased width of the frogs on the lapels—­ had whispered to each other that Temple’s clothes certainly needed overhauling; more particularly his shirts, which were much the worse for wear:  one critic laying the seeming indifference to the carelessness of a man who was growing old; another shaking his head with the remark that it was Poole’s bill which was growing old—­older by a good deal than the clothes, and that it would have to be patched and darned with one of old George Brown’s (the banker’s) scraps of paper before the wearer could regain his reputation of being the best-dressed man in or out of the club.

None of these lapses from his former well-to-do estate made any difference, however, to St. George’s intimates when it came to the selection of important guests for places at table or to assist in the success of some unusual function.  Almost every one in and around Kennedy Square had been crippled in their finances by the failure, not only of the Patapsco, but by kindred institutions, during the preceding few years.  Why, then, they argued, should any one criticise such economies as Temple was practising?  He was still living in his house with his servants—­one