"Have you seen them?"
"No, your honour; they're dead too." The lad added, mournfully, "Everybody's dead, I think."
"They lived down here, you say?"
"Yes; 'most all their lives; in this fine house. They was taking care of it for the master."
Some understanding of the situation dawned upon Miser Farebrother, and a dim idea that it might be turned to his use and profit.
"What was their name?"
"Barley, your honour. That's my name, Tom Barley; and if you'd give me a job I'd be everlastingly thankful."
Miser Farebrother, with his eyes fixed upon the lad's face, into which, in the remote prospect of a job, a wistful expression had stolen, considered for a few moments. Here was a lad who knew nobody in the neighbourhood and whom nobody knew, and who recognized in him the master of Parksides. In a few days he intended to enter into occupation, and he had decided not to bring a servant with him. Tom Barley would be useful, and was, indeed, just the kind of person he would have chosen to serve him in a rough way—a stranger, whose only knowledge of him was that he was the owner of Parksides; and no fear of blabbing, having nothing to blab about. He made up his mind. He took a little book from his pocket, the printed text of which was the calculation of interest upon ten pounds and upward for a day, for a week, for a month, for a year, at from five to fifty per cent. per annum.
"Take this book in your hand and swear upon it that you have told me the truth."
Tom Barley kissed the interest book solemnly, and duly registered the oath.