“I could wish,” said “Cobbler” Horn, as they passed the last-mentioned building, “that my village did not contain any place of that kind.”
“There’s no reason,” responded the agent, with a quiet smile, “why you should have a public-house in the place, if you don’t want one.”
“Couldn’t we have a public-house without strong drink?”
“No doubt we could, sir; but it wouldn’t pay.”
“You mean as a matter of money, of course. But that is nothing to me, and the scheme would pay in other respects. I leave it to you, Mr. Gray, to get rid of the present occupant of the house as soon as it can be done without injustice, and to convert the establishment into a public-house without the drink—a place which will afford suitable accommodation for travellers, and be a pleasant meeting place, of an evening, for the men and boys of the village.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the agent, with huge delight. “Have I carte blanche?”
“‘Carte blanche’?” queried “Cobbler” Horn, with a puzzled air. “Let me see; that’s——what? Ah, I know—a free hand, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the agent gravely.
“Then that’s just what I mean.”
As they drove on, “Cobbler” Horn observed that most of the gardens attached to the cottages were in good order, and that some of the people had been at great pains to conceal the mouldering walls of their wretched huts with roses, honeysuckle, and various climbing plants. Glowing with honest shame, he became restlessly eager to wave his golden wand over this desolate scene.