"Ellis! I heared th' name. Well, master's sick, an' skeered to death o' th' police. They're ready to drop in on the place, that they are, rot 'em, the minute he breathes his last. And he's skeered he's dyin' this time. Oh, he's skeered o' t. So I have me doubts of all strangers. I have me doubts, no matter what they be. Master he've sent a letter to his only relation upon earth, to his nephew, which thank the Lord he's writ for to come an' lay hold on the place, against he dies. If there's no one to lay hold, the police steps in, without a word. That's how they do it. They lets the places in grants like—lets a man have a grant—and when the poor man dies, his place is locked up by the Government. They takes it all."
"Gawd's sake!" murmured Tom aside. "The man's potty!"
"Bush mad," supplemented Rackett, who was sitting in the buggy with his chin in his hand, intently listening to the queer, furtive, garrulous individual.
"Say, friend," he added aloud. "Go and ask your master if we harmless strangers can camp in the barn out of the wet."
"What might your names be, Mister?" asked the man.
"Mine's Dr. Rackett. This is Tom Ellis. And this is Jack Grant. And no harm in any of us."
"D'y' say Jack Grant? Would that be Mr. John Grant?" asked the man, galvanised by sudden excitement.
"None other!" said Rackett.
"Then he's come!" cried the man.
"He certainly has," replied Rackett.