“Thomas Barnes,” said Mary, “lives in a cottage by the cross-roads all alone.”
“What does he do?”
“He fetches things from the station for people; he carries the washing home from Mrs. Carter’s; he runs errands—at least, he doesn’t run them: people wish he would; he sometimes does a day’s work in a garden. But he really must have a new barrow, and his illness took all his money away, because he wouldn’t belong to a club. He’s quite the most obstinate man in this part of the country. But he’s so lonely, you know.”
“Then,” said Mr. Verney, “we must wait till he goes away on an errand.”
“But he locks his shed.”
“Then we must break in.”
“But if people saw us taking the barrow there?”
“Then we must go in the night. I’ll send him to Westerfield suddenly for something quite late—some medicine, and then he’ll think I’m ill—on a Thursday, when there’s the midnight train, and we’ll pop down to his place at about eleven with a screw-driver and things.”
After arranging to go to Westerfield as soon as possible to spend their money, Mary ran home.
Being an almoner was becoming much more interesting.