CHAPTER XII.
GOODCHILD'S.
The North-Western express pulled up for a few moments at the Lewisham siding, and Hal alighted with a "Thank you, sir; that's the house, over there," from the guard; and the train proceeded on its way.
The house referred to was a mansion in size. It was surrounded by beautiful trees, and stood in well-kept grounds, in the midst of which a lake could be discerned glistening in the sun. The country round was the pick of the land, for Goodchild's father had taken it up in the early days, when every pound in cash that a man could show entitled him to an acre of land. No check being put on this rough-and-ready mode of procedure, the sovereign was frequently passed on to a friend to show, who would secure another portion and hand over the title to his principal, receiving something for his trouble. Most of the rich estates in Tasmania were originally obtained in this manner. Hal walked along the path leading to the house, lost in admiration of its beautiful, natural surroundings. His arrival was apparently noted, for an elderly man came out to meet him.
"Mr. Goodchild, I believe?"
"Yes, that's my name," and he gave his visitor a close scrutiny, wondering what his errand could be.
"My name is Winter, sir, and I have called for the purpose of having some conversation with you."
"What is your business, sir?"
"If we could go inside we could talk it over."
"Are you a book-traveller, or anything of that kind?" asked he, snappishly, "for if you are I cannot see you."