Mr. Mowbray nodded. “You’ve got the right idea,” he said. “You’ve almost repeated word for word a speech I once heard my father make. It was he who first thought of coal in the valley and took the risk of getting all the land between Donniston and Copley into his own hands before a sod was turned. He’d have died a pauper if his instinct had proved wrong.
“We could do with a few more like him in Millsborough,” he went on. “Lord! The big things that are waiting to be done. I used to think about them. If it wasn’t for the croaking old fools that get in your way and haven’t eyes to see the sun at midday! It would take the patience of Job and the labours of Hercules to move them.” He poured himself out another glass of port and sipped it for a while in silence.
“What’s your idea of a salary?” he suddenly asked. “Supposing I did find an opening for you.”
Anthony looked at him. He was still sipping his port. Anthony had the conviction that Mr. Mowbray would, if the figure were left to him, suggest a hundred a year. He could not explain why. Maybe some forgotten talk with Edward had left this impression on his mind, or maybe it was pure guess work.
“Eighty pounds a year, sir, I was thinking of, to begin with,” he answered.
The firm of Mowbray and Cousins acted for most of the older inhabitants of Millsborough, and Mrs. Newt was amongst them. Mr. Mowbray had had one or two interviews with Anthony in connection with his aunt’s affairs and had formed a high opinion of his acumen and shrewdness. The price he had just got his aunt for her bit of land in Moor End Lane, and the way he had played one would-be purchaser against another had, in particular, suggested to Mr. Mowbray’s thinking a touch of genius.
“We’ll say a hundred,” said Mr. Mowbray, “to begin with. What happens afterwards will depend upon yourself.”
“It’s awfully kind of you, sir,” said Anthony. “I won’t try to thank you—in words.”