"I can't say as I hev, sir. They come an' they go, does farms—like wives, in a manner o' speaking—an' a man gets ower used to th' shiftings to pay much heed to 'em."
Crabtree moved to the printed sheet and slowly read out the contents.
"Mr. Crowther Crowther is honoured, by the executors of the late Thomas Widdop, with instructions to sell that valuable freehold property known as Gorsthwaite Hall, with all the farm buildings, implements, live and dead stock, as under." Then followed a list of horses, heifers, cows in calf, waggons, turnip and hay choppers, and the like; and an exposition of the agricultural merits of the "Three closes of land adjoining thereto, comprising in all about thirty acres."
"A fine old place it is, too," said Griff, thoughtfully.
"It's like a sight of other fine old places hereabouts, sir—gone to wrack an' ruin. Ay, I mind th' time when there war more Widdops at Gorsthet nor old Thomas: he war nobbut a young 'un' then, an' I war nobbut a young 'un, an' there war three as bonny lasses—sisters o' Thomas's—as ever stepped i' shoe leather used to cross th' Gorsthet doorstuns day in an' day out. But they're all owered wi', is th' Widdops, an' I misdoubt th' owd spot will be selled, so to say, for th' price of a pint."
"There's no telling. Well, Crabtree, your whisky has set me up again, and I think it's about time I was off."
"Afore ye go, sir, there's a bit of a matter I wanted to tell ye on. Happen ye've forgetten Joe Strangeways?"
Griff perceptibly changed colour.
"Not likely," he said brusquely.