Meadows colored, but soon recovered his external composure.
“I have friends there,” said he hastily, “who tell me there are capital investments in that country, and they say no more than the truth.”
“Do you think he will do any good out there?” asked the old man, lowering his voice.
“I can't say,” answered Meadows dryly.
“Tell us something about that country, John,” said Merton; “and if you was to ask me to take a glass of your home-brewed ale I don't think I should gainsay you.”
The ale was sent for, and over it Meadows, whose powers of acquisition extended to facts as well as money, and who was full of this new subject, poured the agricultural contents of a dozen volumes into Mr. Merton.
The old farmer sat open-mouthed, transfixed with interest, listening to his friend's clear, intelligent and masterly descriptions of this wonderful land. At last the clock struck nine; he started up in astonishment.
“I shall get a scolding if I stay later,” said he, and off he went to Grassmere.
“Have you nothing else to say to me?” asked Meadows, as the farmer put his foot in the stirrup.
“Not that I know of,” replied the other, and cantered away.