Isaac Greaves nibbled more busily at his straw. He lifted the rakish-looking billycock and scratched his head.
"What's the matter with it?" he said. "What's up with it, like? It's a good house; they're good buildings, if they are old-fashioned; it's good land."
"Aye—sadly neglected," said his brother. "Fine crops of thistles."
"That could be put right," said Isaac. "Matter of work and patience that—the main thing is, it's good land. And—why can't they let it?"
Simpson Greaves shook his head. He, too, nibbled more zealously at his straw.
"There's something against it, evidently," he said. "Those two last tenants they had wouldn't stop—cleared out quick, both of 'em. For why, I don't know."
Isaac threw away his straw and drew a cigar from his waistcoat pocket. He lighted it and took two or three deliberate puffs before he spoke.
"Well," he said at last, "there's no doubt about it, Simpson—if it's to be had at the rent we've heard of it's such a bargain as no man in his senses should miss. I'm in for it, if you are. It's better land, it's a better house, they're better buildings than what we've got at present, and we're paying more than twice as much. And, of course, our time's up come Lady Day. Look here—we've got the lawyer's directions; let's ride on to Sicaster and see him and hear what he's got to say."
"Come on, then," assented Simpson. "It's only another five miles or so."
There were two stout cobs attached by their bridles to the garden gate, and on them the brothers soon rode into the nearest market-town. With no more delay than was necessitated by stabling the cobs and drinking a glass of ale at the Golden Lion, they presented themselves at the office of the solicitor who acted as agent for the estate on which High Elms Farm was situate, and in due course were conducted to his presence.