“I hope so,” replied Jim. “I suppose you know all the ins and outs of the family affairs.”
Mr. Beadle smilingly directed the young man’s attention to a number of black tin boxes stacked in the corner of the room. “The Tundering-West documents for the last two hundred years,” he declared, blowing his breath through his teeth, an action which served him for laughter.
Jim had a vision of legal formalities and lawyers’ rigmaroles—things which he had always detested; and the passing thought contributed to the growing dislike he felt for the harmless, but sycophantic, Mr. Beadle.
“Well, first of all,” he said, “tell me what my inheritance consists of, and what sort of income I’ve got.”
Mr. Beadle explained that the little property comprised some two hundred acres, most of which were rented; the score of houses and cottages which constituted the tiny little village; the small but comfortable manor-house; and twenty thousand pounds of invested capital. This was better than Jim had expected, and his pleasure was manifest by the broad smile upon his tanned face.
“You see, you will have quite a comfortable income in a small way,” the solicitor told him. “I do not think that your duties will embarrass you. You will find your tenants very respectful and deferential country-people, who will give you little bother; and your obligations as landlord will be very easily discharged.”
“They’re a bit behind the times, eh?” suggested Jim.
“Ah, my dear sir,” said Mr. Beadle, “I am thankful to say that there are still some parts of the English countryside where a gentleman may live in comfort, and where the people keep their place.”
Jim was astonished by the remark, for he had believed such sentiments to be entombed in the novels of long ago. “Poor old England!” he murmured. “We’re a comic race, aren’t we, Mr. Beetle?”
“‘Beadle,’” the little old man corrected him; and “Sorry!” said Jim.