What makes a tightwad tick - when he's a millionaire?

Gordon Elwood of Medford, Ore., kept his pants up with a bungee cord, accepted handouts from a food bank and refused to have a phone installed in his home because of the cost. When he died in October at age 79, he left a $10 million fortune.

Elwood was among a small fraternity of America's upper class: the penny-pinching, often shabbily dressed wealthy who are almost as much a mystery to the people who know them as to the millions of strangers who read their stories and wonder, "Why?"

And their stories, while rare enough to make the headlines, are similar enough to sound familiar.

There was Emma Howe of Minneapolis, who left $1 tips but bequeathed $31 million to the poor and disadvantaged.

And Anne Schieber of New York, a former Internal Revenue Service auditor who wore the same frayed black dress every day but built a $22 million fortune.

And Gladys Holm, a Chicago secretary who never made more than $15,000 a year but accumulated $18 million and gave it all to a children's hospital.

All were buy-and-hold investors who rarely sold their shares. Each was shaped by the Depression, although none ever suffered extreme poverty. All left most of their money to charity, which helped bring them to public attention after a lifetime of secrecy.

Though the number of millionaires in America rises with each stock-market uptick, no one really knows how many are hiding their wealth behind second-hand clothes and modest homes filled with old newspapers, twice-used tea bags and saved balls of string.

The inconspicuous rich are a tiny part of the largest generation of millionaires in U.S. history; the Spectrem Group research firm in San Francisco estimates there are now 8.8 million households with a net worth of $1 million or more, more than double the number 10 years ago. Yet in a country where many purchase the accouterments of wealth by going ever deeper into debt, these anomalous millionaires refuse to spend what they have.

Experts struggle to explain their behavior.

Psychologists say these lowest-profile millionaires likely are motivated by fear, guilt or habit: fear of economic catastrophe or of others' reactions if their wealth were revealed; guilt over their good fortune when others have less; and the frugal habits of a lifetime.

People who know these millionaires grope for explanations as well.

Robert Hutchins, Elwood's friend and stockbroker, is still at a loss to explain why Elwood continued to pick up bottles and cans along the roadside for the deposit money when he was rich enough to start a charitable foundation.

Researchers say the practices of these tightwads may be just an extreme example of the frugal habits shared by many of the truly wealthy.

Thomas Stanley and William Danko, in their seminal book, "The Millionaire Next Door," found that most millionaires they surveyed were in fact fairly frugal. Few had ever paid more than $1,000 for a suit or $250 for a watch.

People who pride themselves on their thrifty ways offer another explanation for such behavior: cheap thrills. The happily frugal extol the sense of satisfaction that comes from making do and doing without, from finding new ways to beat the system that fosters overconsumption and disposability.

Elwood certainly was far from stereotypical of the miserable miser. Hutchins described him as sociable and garrulous, always ready to strike up a conversation with friend or stranger.

He particularly loved the attention people gave him when he bicycled down Medford streets with his Siamese cat, Badger, in a milk crate tied behind the seat.

"People would say what a smart cat he had, and he would say, `Sure, it's a smart cat, but I can still beat him in two out of three games of checkers,' " Hutchins recalled.

Elwood left $9 million to several Oregon agencies, including a charity that rescues cats, the American Red Cross and the Salvation Army, where he used to go for free holiday meals. The rest was left to his children, Karl Elwood and Kristy Jo Schults, both of Medford.

Two other frugal millionaires - Emma Howe and Gladys Holm - also are remembered as friendly.

Howe was among the first employees of what would become one of the nation's largest check-printing companies, Deluxe Check Printing. Much of her wealth was in the form of company stock.

The Minneapolis woman regularly gave small donations to her church and other causes; when she died in 1986, she left two-thirds of her $31 million fortune to charity.

Howe loved to be treated to lunch at her favorite upscale restaurant, said Halsey Halls, Howe's former bank trust officer and now a board member for the charitable foundation that bears her name.

"She'd have a martini - she liked her martinis - and she always insisted on leaving the tip," Halls recalled with a chuckle. "Whether the bill was $100 or $1,000, she'd never leave more than a dollar."

Gladys Holm, who never married, also got rich on company stock, never selling her shares. She was secretary to the founder of what would become American Hospital Supply.

Holm was best-known as the Teddy Bear Lady because she brought stuffed toys to young patients at Chicago's Children's Memorial Hospital.