“Nothing—perhaps; perhaps a great deal; perhaps a matter of that tidy little bit of a three thousand pounds of yours.”
Mr. Schofield’s face sicklied over with the pale cast of a mortal fear. His hands became cold and clammy, his heart sank within him.
“Good God! how can that be? Isn’t there th’ writin’s?”
“Oh, don’t alarm yourself unnecessarily, Mr. Schofield. It may be all right. The late Mr. Beaumont was a very cautious man, I’ve always understood. Still, as you say, there wasn’t a very spirited bidding when the mill was put up before, and if there should be a general strike, or what comes to much the same thing in the long run, a general lockout, mill property will be a drug on the market.”
“Still, aw’ve Mr. Beaumont’s word.”
Mr. Storth shrugged his shoulders.
“Exactly. Well, Mr. Beaumont’s away. Lord only knows when he’ll be back. It’s the Long Vacation, you know. Meanwhile, tho’ it’s very irregular, I’ll let you have my own cheque, on my private account, for the interest. Doubtless Beaumont will see me all right. All the same, I’m glad my little bit isn’t out on mill property and I’ll take precious good care it never is. Of course, it was all right to have your money out in a good round sum when you were up to your eyes in business, and hadn’t time to look after things. But if I were a man of your years, with a fair amount of leisure and settled in my native village, do you know the kind of investment I should fancy?”
“Let’s be knowing, sir, if yo’ don’t mind.”
“I’d lend a hundred here and a hundred there on good cottage property—property that I could walk past every day of my life. I should have the satisfaction of knowing I’d helped some hard-working man to become the owner of his own dwelling.”
“Wi’ me on th’ top of it.”