“It does one good when you talk like that,” cried Ashbrook, bursting out into a laugh.
The old man indulged in a merry chuckle also.
“But I must beg you to listen to me for a short time,” said Ashbrook. “You see, Mr. Jamblin, things are not so rosy with us at Oakfield as they used to be. There are many reasons for this. The farm has not been so profitable of late, and we’ve had some heavy losses. Poor Richard has not been the same man since the loss of his wife—you know, of course, she died of a broken heart.”
“Ah, poor gell, so I heard. That scoundrel Gregson, the burglary, his execution, enough to make one shudder to think on.”
“You know also that the man Peace who was here some time since—he as your son gave a thrashing to, he was concerned in the burglary at Oakfield.”
“Was he though?” cried Jamblin, taking the pipe out of his mouth and staring at the speaker.
“Yes he was, but let that pass. As I was saying, Richard, poor chap, took it in his head to have a turn at brickmaking. He fancied he had found a vein of earth well adapted for the purpose, and he’s sunk a deal of money on the speculation, which we shall none on us see back agen, I’m thinking.”
“Foolish lad, what does he understand about bricks?”
“Well, Mr. Jamblin, I am not a rich man but a poor one, and that has been my only reason for not asking your consent, you understand?”
“Umph, well yes, I think I do. Well, John, I’m sorry you’ve bin goin’ to the bad of late, but it can’t be helped; it aint no fault o’ yours, that I be quite sartin on. And as far as Patty is concerned, it won’t mek much difference.”