“They ought to be burnt—burnt,” repeated Agatha excitedly.
“Aye,” said Timothy, “and the Hall wi’ ’un.”
Nick’s voice was heard from the ingle-nook, shrill and ear-piercing:
“ ’Twould be a rare lark!”
Nobody noticed the boy. The Ancient thumped the tiled floor with his oak stick, exclaiming angrily: “What blarsted talk! ’Tis a fool’s cap you be wanting, Aggie Farleigh.”
Nick interposed again:
“I’ll make ’ee one, Aggie.”
The tension was increasing. Timothy’s deep-set eyes glowered; John Exton, thinking of his father, and recalling old calculations, said emphatically:
“I’ve been into this. Upworthy ought to have fifty new cottages. At the old prices, three hundred apiece, that would make fifteen thousand. Two thousand more would lay down decent drains.”
Nicodemus thumped the floor more vigorously: