“Ah!” ejaculated “Cobbler” Horn. “But we must try to get you something better to drive about in than this, Mr. Gray.”
“Thank you, sir. It will be a good thing.”
As they slowly progressed along the pleasant country road, the agent gave his new employer sundry particulars concerning the property of which he had become possessed.
“Nearly all the village belongs to you, sir. There’s only the church and vicarage, and one farm-house, with a couple of cottages attached, that are not yours. But you’ll find your property in an awful state. I’ve done what I could to patch it up; but what can you do without money?”
“I hope, Mr. Gray,” said the new proprietor, “that we shall soon rectify all that.”
“Of course you will, sir,” said the candid agent. “It’s very painful,” he added, “to hear the complaints the people make.”
“No doubt. You must take me to see some of my tenants; but you must not tell them who I am.”
“There’s a decent house!” he remarked presently, as they came in sight of a comfortable-looking residence, which stood on their left, at the entrance of the village.
“Ah, that’s the vicarage,” replied the agent, “and the church is a little beyond, and along there, on the other side of the road, is the farm-house which does not belong to you.”
They were now entering the village, the long, straggling street of which soon afforded “the Golden Shoemaker” evidence enough of his deceased uncle’s parsimonious ideas. Half-ruined cottages and tumbledown houses were dispersed around; here and there along the main street, were two or three melancholy shops; and in the centre of the village stood a disreputable-looking public-house.