He replied impatiently, with a toss of his head.
“You. I’m a fool, and luckily I know it. The Squire laughs at my idea of leaving the army. He likes to think that I’m treading in his steps. So I am. But where do they lead—backwards or forwards?”
Fishpingle polished the lenses of his spectacles. He couldn’t quite see this young man who enfiladed him right and left with questions which had baffled the wisest in England for five and twenty years. This sprig from a fine tree was shooting too fast for him. He evaded a direct reply.
“Evidently, Master Lionel, you’ve made up your mind not to go backwards.”
“I have. But standing still won’t help much, and I don’t know how to get ‘forward.’”
“One lives and learns. It’s slow work. All over the country the land system, generally, is the nation’s weak spot. I believe in the land. I hate to see strong young men emigrating.”
Lionel laughed, but not too mirthfully.
“How did you get the truth out of those Mucklows? I did my little bit with ’em. By George, it was little.”
Fishpingle disclaimed any credit.
“I know ’em, Master Lionel. I knew that Ezekiel Mucklow has been walking out with Mr. Hamlin’s parlourmaid for five years. They just stand it so long. Then they want cottages in a hurry. To deal with ’em you must know ’em—all the ins and outs of their queer minds. Half the young men from Ocknell Manor have gone. That estate is a disgrace. And many others. It’ll be in the market soon. And the Ocknells have been there for five hundred years.”