“Oh, I shall fit all right,” he answered, looking about his chamber.
It was very low and scrupulously clean: the window was on a level with the bare boards, there was a wooden bed, with a patchwork quilt, a chest of drawers, a washstand, and a rush-bottomed chair.
“I shall want a bath,” he announced abruptly.
“A bath! Well, I never!”
“Yes; or, if the worst comes to the worst, an old wash-tub.”
“Oh,” reflecting, “I do believe Mrs. Frickett at the Drum has a tin one she’d lend—no one there wants it.”
“I’ll carry up the water myself.”
“Will you so? I suppose your box is at the house, and Tom will bring it down on the barrow. He will be in to his tea directly. Here he is,” as the sound of clumping boots ascended from below.
When confronted with Tom, Wynyard found him to be a man of thirty, in rough working clothes, with one of the finest faces he had ever seen, a square forehead, clear-cut features, and a truly noble and benevolent expression. The general effect was considerably marred by the fact that Tom wore his thick brown hair several inches too long, and a fringe of whiskers framed his face and met under his chin, precisely as his father’s and grandfather’s had done.
“Tom, here be Miss Parrett’s shover,” announced his mother, “the man-servant, you know, as will bide with us. You’ll take him in hand, and show him about, eh?”