Excessive thrift, I learned, may be a sin, when love of wealth does triumph over all, and man forgets his duties to his Lord. In that dark place a preacher grey I found, clutching to himself a chest of slates. In broken words, he told me of the way in which he'd clutched to himself every bit.
Within his chest he carried here with him the numbered slates that he had used in life to indicate to those within his church the numbered hymns for the service there. From one to eight hundred these hymns ran, and four of them were called for each day's prayer. The preacher swelled with pride to let me know that he had just the minimum of slates required to satisfy each day's new need. He even bragged how 'six' could serve as 'nine', by simple means of rotation of slates.
So tell me now, how many slates had he, clutched there to his bosom in that chest?