“Fifty.”
“And fifty sold at ten pounds each, how much is that?”
“Five hundred pounds.”
“How long will it take me to pay off the mortgage at that rate?”
“Two years . . . at that rate. But there’s the interest too, and . . .”
Ortho smote him on the back. “Oh, cheerily, old long-face, all’s well! The rent’ll pay the interest, as thou thyself sayest, and I’ll fetch in the money somehow. We’ll harvest a mighty crop next season and the horses’ll pay bags full. In two years’ time I’ll put my boot under that fat cheese-weevil Carveth and you shall ride into Tregors like a king. If only I could have got hold of that second hundred! You don’t know where mother hides her money, do you?”
“No.”
“No more do I . . . but I will. I’ll sit over her like a puss at a mouse hole. I’ll have some more of it yet.”
“Leave it alone,” said Eli; “she’s sure to find out and then there’ll be the devil to pay. Besides, whatever you say about it being our money it don’t seem right. Leave it be.”
Ortho threw an arm about his neck and laughed at him.