Dick said nothing, for he thought those summer evenings delightful. He and Tom, too, had been ready enough to laugh at their new friend whenever he displayed ignorance of some term common to the district; but now this laughter was lost in admiration as they found how he could point out objects in their various excursions which they had never seen before, book-lore having prepared him to find treasures in the neighbourhood of the Toft of whose existence its occupants knew naught.
“Don’t you find it very dull out there, Mr Marston,” said Mrs Winthorpe one day, “always watching your men cut—cut—cut—through that wet black bog?”
“Dull, madam!” he said, smiling; “why, it is one continual time of excitement. I watch every spadeful that is taken out, expecting to come upon some relic of the past, historical or natural. By the way, Dick, did that man Bargle ever give you the big tusk he said he had found?”
“No, he has never said any more about it, and I don’t like to ask.”
“Then I will. Perhaps it is the tooth of some strange beast which used to roam these parts hundreds of years ago.”
“I say, Marston,” said the squire, “you’d like to see your great band of ruffians at work excavating here, eh?”
“Mr Winthorpe,” said the young man, “I’d give anything to be allowed to search the ruins.”
“Yes, and turn my place upside down, and disturb the home of the poor old monks who used to live here! No, no; I’m not going to have my place ragged to pieces. But when we do dig down, we come upon some curious old stones.”
“Like your tobacco-jar?” the engineer said, pointing to the old carven corbel.
The squire nodded.