Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grind- stone, Mr. Hall! A squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he; no falling snow was more intent upon its purposeā€¦

But what did Mr. Hall care? It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call "nuts" to Mr. Hall.

And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God Bless Us, Every One (who's not in his class)!