“Hoot! then it’s all right, I warrant ye, and ye can tell old Slade, if he likes it, I’ll get him a bit of a writin’ to the hospital for Jim; but it won’t be nothin’—not a bit.”
And with this economical arrangement, Harry dismissed the subject for the present, and took his stand upon the hall-door steps, and smoked his pipe, awaiting the close of Sergeant-Major Archdale’s repast.
The long shadows and lights of golden sunset faded before the guest appeared, and twilight and the moths were abroad.
Almost as the servant informed Harry Fairfield that Mr. Archdale was coming round to the hall-door to receive his commands, the Sergeant-Major appeared in front of the house, and Harry Fairfield stepped down to the court and was received by the militiaman with a military salute.
“I’ll walk a bit wi’ you, Archdale; I want a word about another matter—not regimental business. We’ll walk down towards the gate.”
Stiffly and silently the Sergeant-Major marched beside the smoking gentleman, who having got a little way from the house, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and dropped it into his pocket.
“That militia sogerin’ is beggarly pay for a man like you, Archdale; and I’ll want a clever fellow, by-and-by—for when the Squire goes off the hooks, and that can’t be a long way off—I’ll have a deal o’ trouble lookin’ after things; for there’s a young chap to succeed, and a plaguy long minority ’twill be, and one way or another the trouble will fall to my share, bein’ uncle, ye see, to the little fellow. Am I making it plain what I mean?”
“Quite plain, sir,” said the cold voice of the Sergeant-Major.
“Well, there’s the property down at Warhampton, a devilish wide stretch o’ land for the rental. There’s good shootin’ there, and two keepers, but I doubt they makes away wi’ the game, and they want lookin’ after; and there’s the old park o’ Warhampton—ye know that part o’ the country?”
“Yes, sir, well.”