“Oh yes, I know that,” said Sam. “You would be if you bought an estate.”
“Come, then, you do know something, my lad. But it has been a tiresome business, with its investigation of titles and rights of usance, and court copyhold fines, and—Bother the business, it has taken up no end of time. But there, it’s all over, and you and I can go and make the dust fly and set the millstones spinning as much as we like. Thumpers they are, Tom, three feet in diameter. I wish to goodness they had been discs of glass instead of stone.”
“Do you, uncle?” said Tom, for his companion was evidently waiting for an answer.
“Yes; we could have tried some fine experiments with them, whereas they will be useless and unsalable I expect.”
To Tom’s great relief the conversation reverted to his life at Gray’s Inn and Mornington Crescent, for the impression would keep growing upon him that what people said about his uncle’s queerness might have some basis. But this opinion was soon shaken as they went on, for he was questioned very shrewdly about his cousin and all that had passed between them, till all at once his companion held out his hand.
“Shake hands, Tom, my boy. We are just entering Furzebrough parish, and I want to say this:—You came to me with an execrable character—”
“Yes, uncle; I’m very sorry.”
“Then I’m not, my lad. For look here: I have been questioning you for the last hour, and I have observed one thing—in all your statements about your cousin, who is an abominably ill-behaved young whelp, you have never once spoken ill-naturedly about him, nor tried to run him down. I like this, my lad, and in spite of all that has been said, I believe that you and I will be very good friends indeed.”
“Thank you, uncle,” said Tom, huskily. “I mean to try.”
“I know that, or I wouldn’t have brought you home. There, there, look! quick! before it runs behind that fir clump, that’s the old madman’s windmill.”