“We’re getting on, neighbour,” said the squire to Farmer Tallington one evening.
“Ay, but it’s slow work,” said Tom’s father. “It’ll be years before that lode is cooten.”
“Yes, it will be years before it is finished,” said the squire, “certainly.”
“Then, what’s the good of us putting our money in it, eh? It’ll do us no good, and be robbing our boys.”
“Then why don’t you leave off, father?” said Tom stoutly. “Dick Winthorpe and I don’t want the fen to be drained, and we don’t want to be robbed. Do we, Dick?”
The two elders laughed heartily, and the squire was silent for a few minutes before he began to speak.
“The drain’s right, neighbour,” he said gravely. “Perhaps you and I will reap no great benefit from it; though, if we live, we shall; but instead of leaving to our boys, when they take up our work, neighbour, either because we are called away to our rest or because we have grown old, these farms with so much good land and so much watery bog, we shall leave them acre upon acre of good solid land, that has been useless to us, but which will bear them crops and feed their beasts.”
“Yes,” said Farmer Tallington, “there’s something in that, but—”
“Come, neighbour, look ahead. Every foot that drain comes into the fen it will lower the level, and we shall see—and before long—our farm land grow, and the water sink.”
“Ye–es; but it’s so like working for other people!”