Nothing came amiss to him; nothing seemed to fail in his hands. He had a finger in fifty pies, and men followed his lead as a matter of course, for Nathan Baskerville was never known to make a bad bargain or faulty investment. Nor did he keep his good luck to himself. All men could win his ear; the humblest found him kind. He would invest a pound for a day labourer as willingly as ten for a farmer. After five-and-twenty years in Shaugh Prior he had won the absolute trust of his neighbours. All eyes brightened at his name. He was wont to say that only one living man neither believed in him nor trusted him.
"And that man, as luck will have it, is my own brother Humphrey," the innkeeper would confess over his bar to regular visitors thereat. "'Tis no great odds, however, and I don't feel it so much as you might think, because Humphrey Baskerville is built on a very uncomfortable pattern. If 'twas only me he mistrusted, I might feel hurt about it; but 'tis the world, and therefore I've got no right to mind. There's none—none he would rely upon in a fix—a terrible plight for a man that. But I live in hopes that I'll win him round yet."
The folk condoled with him, and felt a reasonable indignation that this most large-hearted, kindly, and transparent of spirits should rest under his own brother's suspicion. They explained it as the work of jealousy. All Baskervilles had brains, and most were noted for good looks; but both gifts had reached their highest development and culmination in Nathan. He was the handsomest and the cleverest of the clan; and doubtless Humphrey, a sinister and secret character, against whom much was whispered and more suspected, envied his brother's gifts and far-reaching popularity. Nathan was sixty, the youngest and physically the weakest of the three brothers. He had a delicate throat which often caused him anxiety.
The men scattering manure upon the mangolds made an end of their work and separated. One took some sacks and the pails used for the fertiliser. Then he mounted a bare-backed horse that stood in a corner of the field, and rode away slowly to Undershaugh. His companion crossed the stream beneath the village, mounted a hill beyond it, and presently entered 'The White Thorn.' He was a well-turned, fair, good-looking youth in corduroys and black leathern leggings. He wore no collar, but his blue cotton shirt was clean and made a pleasant contrast of colour with the brown throat that rose from it. Young Lintern was the widow Lintern's only son and her right hand at Undershaugh.
The men in the bar gave him good day, and Mr. Baskerville, who was serving, drew for him half a pint of beer.
"Well, Heathman," he said. "So that's done. And, mark me, 'twas worth the doing. If you don't fetch home first prize as usual for they mangolds, say I've forgot the recipe."
"'Tis queer stuff," answered the youngster, "and what with this wind blowing, my eyes and nose and throat's all full of it."
"'Twill do you no harm but rise a pleasant thirst."
Mr. Baskerville had humour stamped at the wrinkled corners of his bright eyes. His face was genial and rubicund. He wore a heavy grey beard, but his hair, though streaked with grey, was still dark in colour. A plastic mouth that widened into laughter a thousand times a day, belonged to him. He was rather above average height, sturdy and energetic. He declared that he had never known what it was to be weary in mind or body. Behind his bar he wore no coat, but ministered in turned-up shirt sleeves that revealed fine hairy arms.
Young Ned Baskerville sat in the bar, and now he spoke to Heathman Lintern.